' 


LIBRARY) 


UMVt.R-il TV  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

!       SAN  DIEGO      J 


A  FEW  MORE  VERSES. 


BY  SUSAN   COOLIDGE. 


UNIFORM    WITH    THIS    VOLUME. 


VERSES. 

BY   SUSAN    COOLIDGE. 
PRICE,  $1.00. 


ROBERTS    BROTHERS, 

PUBLISHERS. 


BY    SUSAN    COOLIDGE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "VERSES." 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 
1907 


Copyright,   1889, 
BY   ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


J.  1'AREHii.L  i  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.  8.  A. 


S~*IVING  to  all,  thou  gavest  as  well  to  me. 
A  myriad  thirsty  shores  await  the  tide: 
They  drink  and  drink,  and  will  not  be  denied ; 
But  not  a  drop  less  full  the  brimming  Sea. 

One  tiny  shell  among  the  kelp  and  weed, 
One  sand-grain  where  the  beaches  stretch  away,  - 
How  shall  the  tide  regard  them  ?      Yet  each  day 
It  comes,  and  fills  and  satisfies  their  need. 

What  can  the  singing  sands  give  to  the  Sea  ? 
What  the  dumb  shell,  though  inly  it  rejoice  ? 
Only  the  echo  of  its  own  strong  voice  ;  — 
And  this  is  all  that  here  I  bring  to  thee. 


A  BENEDICTION. 

fOD  give  thee,  love,  thy  heart's  desire  I 
*-*     What  better  can  I  pray  ? 
For  though  love  falter  not,  nor  tire, 

And  stand  on  guard  all  day, 
How  little  can  it  know  or  do, 

How  little  can  it  say  ! 

How  hard  it  strives,  and  how  in  vain, 

By  hope  and  fear  misled, 
To  make  the  pathway  soft  and  plain 

For  the  dear  feet  to  tread, 
7<7  shield  from  sun-beat  and  from  rain 

The  one  beloved  head! 

Its  wisdom  is  made  foolishness  ; 

Its  best  intent  goes  wrong- ; 
It  curses  where  it  fain  would  bless, 

Is  weak  instead  of  strong,  — 
Marring  with  sad,  discordant  sighs 

The  joyance  of  its  song. 

I  do  not  dare  to  bless  or  ban,  — 

/  am  too  blind  to  see,  — 
But  this  one  little  prayer  I  can 

Put  up  to  God  for  thee, 
Because  I  know  what  fair,  pure  things 

Thy  inmost  wishes  be  ; 


vm  A   BENEDICTION. 

That  what  thy  heart  desires  the  most 
Is  what  he  loves  to  grant,  — 

The  lave  that  counteth  not  its  cost 
If  any  crave  or  want ; 

The  presence  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
The  soul's  inhabitant ; 

The  wider  vision  of  the  mind ; 

The  spirit  bright  with  sun  ; 
The  temper  like  a  fragrant  wind, 

Chilling  and  grieving  none  ; 
The  quickened  heart  to  know  God's  will 

And  on  his  errands  run  ; 

The  ministry  of  little  things,  — 

A'ot  counted  mean  or  small 
By  that  dear  alchemy  which  brings 

Some  grain  of  gold  from  all ; 
The  faith  to  wait  as  well  as  work, 
Whatever  may  befall. 

So,  sure  of  thee,  and  unafraid, 
I  make  my  daily  prayer, 

Nor  fear  that  my  blind  zeal  be  made 
Thy  injury  or  snare : 

God  give  thee,  love,  thy  heart's  desire, 
And  bless  thee  everywhere  ! 


CONTENTS  TO  PART   SECOND. 


PAGE 

To  Arcite  at  the  Wars 13 

New  every  Morning 15 

Lohengrin 17 

A  Single  Stitch 19 

Reply 20 

Talitha  Cumi 23 

The  Better  Way 25 

Forever 27 

Miracle 29 

Charlotte  Bronte 32 

End  and  Means 34 

Comforted 36 

Words 39 

Influence 41 

An  Easter  Song 43 

So  Long  Ago 45 

A  Birthday 47 

Derelict 49 

H.  H 51 

Freedom 54 

The  Vision  and  the  Summons 56 

Forecast 59 

Early  Taken 61 


x  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

Some  Lover's  Dear  Thought 64 

Ashes 66 

One  Lesser  Joy 68 

Close  at  Hand 71 

Only  a  Dream 73 

At  the  Altar 77 

Eternity 79 

Restfulness 81 

In  and  On 83 

A  Day-time  Moon 85 

A  Midnight  Sun     .     • 87 

Her  Voice 90 

A  Florentine  Juliet 92 

Here  and  There 106 

Forward 108 

In  her  Garden no 

On  Easter  Day 113 

"  Der  Abend  ist  der  Beste  " 115 

Optimism 117 

"  He  shall  drink  of  the  Brook  by  the  Way  " 120 

Three  Pictures 122 

The  Two  Shores 125 

"  Arise,  shine,  for  thy  Light  has  come  " 127 

A  Withered  Violet 129 

Darkened 131 

The  Keys  of  Granada 133 

Bereaved 135 

"  How  can  they  bear  it  up  in  Heaven  ?" 138 

Wave  after  Wave 141 

The  Word  with  Power 143 

To  Felicia  Singing 146 

Eurydice 148 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGB 

Three  Worlds 150 

Opportunity 153 

Christ  before  Pilate 155 

Non  Omnis  Moriar 158 

At  Dawn  of  Day 161 

What  might  have  been 163 

Some  Time 166 

The  Stars  are  in  the  Sky  all  Day 168 

Now 171 

Just  Beyond 172 

Contact 175 

An  Easter  Song 178 

Concord 181 

Hereafter 184 

Our  Daily  Bread 186 

Sleeping  and  Waking 188 

Thorns 190 

A  New-England  Lady 192 

Under  the  Snow 195 

Sonnet  for  a  Birthday 197 

"  Many  Waters  cannot  quench  Love  " 198 

Unexhausted 201 

Welcome  and  Farewell 203 

Life 205 

Shut  in 207 

Good-by 209 

What  the  Angel  said 211 

Commonplace 216 

Gold,  Frankincense,  and  Myrrh 217 

A  Thought 219 

At  Flood 221 

The  Angels 223 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Not  Yet 225 

To-day  and  To-morrow 227 

"  That  was  the  True  Light,  that   lighteth  every   Man  that 

cometh  into  the  World  " 228 

The  Star 230 

Helen 232 

Lux  in  Tenebri.s 235 

Lent 237 

Palm  Sunday 240 

Soul  and  Body 242 

Sound  at  Core        245 

The  Old  Village 247 

A  Greeting 252 

Changeless 254 

Easter 255 

The  World  is  Vast 257 


TO   ARCITE  AT  THE  WARS. 

1759- 

THOUSAND  leagues  of  wind-blown  space, 

A  thousand  leagues  of  sea, 
Half  of  the  great  earth's  hiding  face 

Divides  mine  eyes  from  thee  ; 
The  world  is  strong,  the  waves  are  wide, 

But  my  good-will  is  stronger  still, 
My  love,  than  wind  or  tide. 

These  sentinels  which  Fate  has  set 

To  bar  and  hold  me  here 
I  make  my  errand-men,  to  get 

A  message  to  thine  ear. 
The  winds  shall  waft,  the  waters  bear, 

And  spite  of  seas  I,  when  I  please, 
Can  reach  thee  everywhere. 

Prayers  are  like  birds  to  find  the  way ; 

Thoughts  have  a  swifter  flight ; 
And  mine  stream  forth  to  thee  all  day, 

Nor  stop  to  rest  by  night. 


14  TO  ARCITE  AT  THE    WARS. 

Like  silent  angels  at  thy  side 

They  stand  unseen,  they  bend  and  lean, 
They  bless  and  warn  and  guide. 

There  is  no  near,  there  is  no  far, 

There  is  no  loss  or  change, 
To  love  which,  like  a  fixed  star, 

Abideth  in  one  range, 
And  shines,  and  shines,  with  quenchless  eyes, 

And  sends  long  rays  in  many  ways 
To  lighten  distant  skies. 

Where  sight  is  not,  faith  brighter  burns ; 

So  faithfully  I  wait, 
Secure  that  loyal  loving  earns 

Its  guerdon  soon  or  late,  — 
Secure,  though  lacking  word  or  sign, 

That  thy  true  thought  keeps  as  it  ought 
Tryst  with  each  thought  of  mine. 


NEW  EVERY  MORNING.  15 


NEW  EVERY  MORNING. 

VERY  day  is  a  fresh  beginning, 

Every  morn  is  the  world  made  new. 
You  who  are  weary  of  sorrow  and  sinning, 
Here  is  a  beautiful  hope  for  you,  — 
A  hope  for  me  and  a  hope  for  you. 

All  the  past  things  are  past  and  over ; 

The  tasks  are  done  and  the  tears  are  shed. 

Yesterday's  errors  let  yesterday  cover ; 

Yesterday's  wounds,  which  smarted  and  bled, 
Are  healed  with  the  healing  which  night  has  shed. 

Yesterday  now  is  a  part  of  forever, 

Bound  up  in  a  sheaf,  which  God  holds  tight, 

With  glad  days,  and  sad  days,  and  bad  days,  which  never 
Shall  visit  us  more  with  their  bloom  and  their  blight, 
Their  fulness  of  sunshine  or  sorrowful  night. 

Let  them  go,  since  we  cannot  re-live  them, 
Cannot  undo  and  cannot  atone ; 


1 6  NEW  EVERY  MORNING. 

God  in  his  mercy  receive,  forgive  them  ! 
Only  the  new  days  are  our  own ; 
To-day  is  ours,  and  to-day  alone. 

Here  are  the  skies  all  burnished  brightly, 
Here  is  the  spent  earth  all  re-born, 

Here  are  the  tired  limbs  springing  lightly 
To  face  the  sun  and  to  share  with  the  morn 
In  the  chrism  of  dew  and  the  cool  of  dawn. 

Every  day  is  a  fresh  beginning ; 
Listen,  my  soul,  to  the  glad  refrain, 

And,  spite  of  old  sorrow  and  older  sinning, 
And  puzzles  forecasted  and  possible  pain, 
Take  heart  with  the  day,  and  begin  again. 


LOHENGRIN.  17 


LOHENGRIN. 

'  O  have  touched  Heaven  and  failed  to  enter  in  ! 
Ah,  Elsa,  prone  upon  the  lonely  shore, 

Watching  the  swan-wings  beat  along  the  blue, 
Watching  the  glimmer  of  the  silver  mail, 

Like  flash  of  foam,  till  all  are  lost  to  view,  — 
What  may  thy  sorrow  or  thy  watch  avail? 
He  cometh  nevermore. 

All  gone  the  new  hope  of  thy  yesterday,  — 
The  tender  gaze  and  strong,  like  dewy  fire, 

The  gracious  form  with  airs  of  Heaven  bedight, 
The  love  that  warmed  thy  being  like  a  sun :  — 

Thou  hadst  thy  choice  of  noonday  or  of  night ; 
Now  the  swart  shadows  gather,  one  by  one, 
To  give  thee  thy  desire  ! 

To  every  life  one  heavenly  chance  befalls ; 
To  every  soul  a  moment,  big  with  fate, 

When,  grown  importunate  with  need  and  fear, 


1 8  LOHENGRIN. 

It  cries  for  help,  and  lo  !  from  close  at  hand, 
The  voice  Celestial  answers,  "  I  am  here  !  " 
Oh,  blessed  souls,  made  wise  to  understand, 
Made  bravely  glad  to  wait ! 

But  thou,  pale  watcher  on  the  lonely  shore, 
Where  the  surf  thunders,  and  the  foam-bells  fly, 

Is  there  no  place  for  penitence  and  pain, 
No  saving  grace  in  thy  all-piteous  rue  ? 

Will  the  bright  vision  never  come  again  ? 
Alas,  the  swan-wings  vanish  in  the  blue, 
There  cometh  no  reply ! 


A   SINGLE  STITCH.  19 


A  SINGLE   STITCH. 

;|NE  stitch  dropped  as  the  weaver  drove 

His  nimble  shuttle  to  and  fro, 
In  and  out,  beneath,  above, 
Till  the  pattern  seemed  to  bud  and  grow 
As  if  the  fairies  had  helping  been,  — 
One  small  stitch  which  could  scarce  be  seen. 
But  the  one  stitch  dropped  pulled  the  next  stitch  out, 
And  a  weak  place  grew  in  the  fabric  stout ; 
And  the  perfect  pattern  was  marred  for  aye 
By  the  one  small  stitch  that  was  dropped  that  day. 

One  small  life  in  God's  great  plan, 

How  futile  it  seems  as  the  ages  roll, 
Do  what  it  may,  or  strive  how  it  can 

To  alter  the  sweep  of  the  infinite  whole  ! 
A  single  stitch  in  an  endless  web, 
A  drop  in  the  ocean's  flow  and  ebb  ! 
But  the  pattern  is  rent  where  the  stitch  is  lost, 
Or  marred  where  the  tangled  threads  have  crossed ; 
And  each  life  that  fails  of  its  true  intent 
Mars  the  perfect  plan  that  its  Master  meant. 


20  REPLY. 


REPLY. 

HAT,  then,  is  Love  ?  "  she  said. 
Love  is  a  music,  blent  in  curious  key 
Of  jarring  discords  and  of  harmony ; 
'T  is  a  delicious  draught  which,  as  you  sip, 
Turns  sometimes  into  poison  on  your  lip. 
It  is  a  sunny  sky  infolding  storm, 
The  fire  to  ruin  or  the  fire  to  warm  ; 
A  garland  of  fresh  roses  fair  to  sight, 
Which  then  becomes  a  chain  and  fetters  tight. 
It  is  a  half-heard  secret  told  to  two, 
A  life-long  puzzle  or  a  guiding  clew. 
The  joy  of  joys,  the  deepest  pain  of  pain  ;  — 
All  these  Love  has  been  and  will  be  again. 

"  How  may  I  know?  "  she  said. 
Thou  mayest  not  know,  for  Love  has  conned  the  art 
To  blind  the  reason  and  befool  the  heart. 
So  subtle  is  he,  not  himself  may  guess 


RE  PL  Y.  21 

Whether  he  shall  be  more  or  shall  be  less ; 
Wrapped  in  a  veil  of  many  colored  mists, 
He  flits  disguised  wheresoe'er  he  lists, 
And  for  the  moment  is  the  thing  he  seems, 
The  child  of  vagrant  hope  and  fairy  dreams ; 
Sails  like  a  rainbow  bubble  on  the  wind, 
Now  high,  now  low,  before  us  or  behind ; 
And  only  when  our  fingers  grasp  the  prize, 
Changes  his  form  and  swiftly  vanishes. 

"  Then  best  not  love,"  she  said. 
Dear  child,  there  is  no  better  and  no  best ; 
Love  comes  not,  bides  not  at  thy  slight  behest. 
As  well  might  thy  frail  fingers  seek  to  stay 
The  march  of  waves  in  yonder  land-locked  bay, 
As  stem  the  surging  tide  which  ebbs  and  fills 
Mid  human  energies  and  human  wills. 
The  moon  leads  on  the  strong,  resisting  sea ; 
And  so  the  moon  of  love  shall  beckon  thee, 
And  at  her  bidding  thou  wilt  leap  and  rise, 
And  follow  o'er  strange  seas,  'neath  unknown  skies, 
Unquestioning ;  to  dash,  or  soon  or  late, 
On  sand  or  cruel  crag,  as  is  thy  fate. 


22  REPLY. 

"  Then  woe  is  me  !  "  she  said. 
Weep  not ;  there  is  a  harder,  sadder  thing,  — 
Never  to  know  this  sweetest  suffering  ! 
Never  to  see  the  sun,  though  suns  may  slay, 
Or  share  the  richer  feast  as  others  may. 
Sooner  the  sealed  and  closely  guarded  wine 
Shall  seek  again  its  purple  clustered  vine, 
Sooner  the  attar  be  again  the  rose, 
Than  Love  unlearn  the  secret  that  it  knows  ! 
Abide  thy  fate,  whether  for  good  or  ill ; 
Fearlessly  wait,  and  be  thou  certain  still, 
Whether  as  foe  disguised  or  friendly  guest 
He  comes,  Love's  coming  is  of  all  things  best. 


TALITHA    CUMI.  2$ 


TALITHA   CUMI. 

UR  little  one  was  sick,  and  the  sickness  pressed 

her  sore. 
We  sat  beside  her  bed,  and  we  felt  her  hands 

and  head, 

And  in  our  hearts  we  prayed  this  one  prayer  o'er  and 
o'er : 

"  Come  to  us,  Christ  the  Lord ;  utter  thine  old-time 
word, 

'  Talitha  cumi ! '  " 

And  as  the  night  wore  on,  and  the  fever  flamed   more 
high, 

And  a  new  look  burned  and  grew  in  the  eyes  of  tender 

blue, 

Still  louder  in  our  hearts  uprose  the  voiceless  cry, 
"  O  Lord  of  love  and  might,  say  once  again  to-night, 
'  Talitha  cumi ! '  " 


24  TALITHA    CUML 

And  then,  and  then  —  he  came ;  we  saw  him  not,  but 

felt. 
And  he  bent  above  the  child,  and  she  ceased  to  moan, 

and  smiled ; 
And  although  we  heard  no  sound,  as  around  the  bed  we 

knelt, 

Our  souls  were  made  aware  of  a  mandate  in  the  air, 
"  Talitha  cumi !  " 

And  as  at  dawn's  fair  summons  faded  the  morning  star, 
Holding  the  Lord's  hand   close,  the   child  we  loved 
arose, 

And  with  him  took  her  way  to  a  country  far  away ; 

And  we  would  not  call  her  dead,  for  it  was  his  voice 

that  said, 

"  Talitha  cumi !  " 


THE  BETTER    WAY.  2$ 


THE   BETTER  WAY. 

HO  serves  his  country  best  ? 
Not  he  who,  for  a  brief  and  stormy  space, 
Leads  forth  her  armies  to  the  fierce  affray. 
Short  is  the  time  of  turmoil  and  unrest, 
Long  years  of  peace  succeed  it  and  replace  : 
There  is  a  better  way. 

Who  serves  his  country  best  ? 
Not  he  who  guides  her  senates  in  debate, 
And  makes  the  laws  which  are  her  prop  and  stay ; 
Not  he  who  wears  the  poet's  purple  vest, 
And  sings  her  songs  of  love  and  grief  and  fate  : 
There  is  a  better  way. 

He  serves  his  country  best, 
Who  joins  the  tide  that  lifts  her  nobly  on  ; 
For  speech  has  myriad  tongues  for  every  day, 
And  song  but  one  ;  and  law  within  the  breast 
Is  stronger  than  the  graven  law  on  stone  : 
There  is  a  better  way. 


26  THE  BETTER   WAY. 

He  serves  his  country  best 
Who  lives  pure  life,  and  doeth  righteous  deed, 
And  walks  straight  paths,  however  others  stray, 
And  leaves  his  sons  as  uttermost  bequest 
A  stainless  record  which  all  men  may  read  : 
This  is  the  better  way. 

No  drop  but  serves  the  slowly  lifting  tide, 
No  dew  but  has  an  errand  to  some  flower, 
No  smallest  star  but  sheds  some  helpful  ray, 
And  man  by  man,  each  giving  to  all  the  rest, 
Makes  the  firm  bulwark  of  the  country's  power 
There  is  no  better  way. 


FOREVER.  27 


FOREVER. 

HEY  sat  together  in  the  sun, 

And  Youth  and  Hope  stood  hovering  near ; 
Like  dropping  bell-notes  one  by  one 
Chimed  the  glad  moments  soft  and  clear ; 
And  still  amid  their  happy  speech 
The  lovers  whispered  each  to  each, 
"  Forever  ! " 

Youth  spread  his  wings  of  rainbow  light, 
"  Farewell !  "  he  whispered  as  he  went ; 

They  heeded  not  nor  mourned  his  flight, 
Wrapped  in  their  measureless  content ; 

And  still  they  smiled,  and  still  was  heard 
The  confidently  uttered  word, 
"  Forever  !  " 

Hope  stayed,  her  steadfast  smile  was  sweet,  — 
Until  the  even-time  she  stayed  ; 


28  FOREVER. 

Then  with  reluctant,  noiseless  feet 
She  stole  into  the  solemn  shade. 

A  graver  shape  moved  gently  by, 
And  bent,  and  murmured  warningly, 
"Forever  ! " 

And  then — where  sat  the  two,  sat  one  ! 

No  voice  spoke  back,  no  glance  replied. 
Behind  her,  where  she  rested  lone, 

Hovered  the  spectre,  solemn-eyed ; 
She  met  his  look  without  a  thrill, 

And,  smiling  faintly,  whispered  still, 
"  Forever  ! " 

Oh,  sweet,  sweet  Youth  !  Oh,  fading  Hope  ! 

Oh,  eyes  by  tearful  mists  made  blind  ! 
Oh,  hands  which  vainly  reach  and  grope 

For  a  familiar  touch  and  kind  ! 
Time  pauseth  for  no  lover's  kiss  ; 

Love  for  its  solace  has  but  this,  — 
"  Forever  ! " 


MIRACLE.  29 


MIRACLE. 

not  in  strange  portentous  way 
Christ's  miracles  were  wrought  of  old, 
The  common  thing,  the  common  clay, 
He  touched  and  tinctured,  and  straightway 
It  grew  to  glory  manifold. 

The  barley  loaves  were  daily  bread, 

Kneaded  and  mixed  with  usual  skill ; 
No  care  was  given,  no  spell  was  said, 
But  when  the  Lord  had  blessed,  they  fed 
The  multitude  upon  the  hill. 

The  hemp  was  sown  'neath  common  sun, 
Watered  by  common  dews  and  rain, 

Of  which  the  fishers'  nets  were  spun ; 

Nothing  was  prophesied  or  done 
To  mark  it  from  the  other  grain. 


30  MIRACLE. 

Coarse,  brawny  hands  let  down  the  net 

When  the  Lord  spake  and  ordered  so  ; 
They  hauled  the  meshes,  heavy-wet, 
Just  as  in  other  days,  and  set 

Their  backs  to  labor,  bending  low ; 

But  quivering,  leaping  from  the  lake 

The  marvellous,  shining  burdens  rise 
Until  the  laden  meshes  break, 
And,  all  amazed,  no  man  spake, 
But  gazed  with  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

So  still,  dear  Lord,  in  every  place 

Thou  standest  by  the  toiling  folk 
With  love  and  pity  in  thy  face, 
And  givest  of  thy  help  and  grace 
To  those  who  meekly  bear  the  yoke. 

Not  by  strange  sudden  change  and  spell, 
Baffling  and  darkening  Nature's  face  ; 
Thou  takest  the  things  we  know  so  well 
And  buildest  on  them  thy  miracle,  — 
The  heavenly  on  the  commonplace. 


MIRACLE.  31 

The  lives  which  seem  so  poor,  so  low, 

The  hearts  which  are  so  cramped  and  dull, 

The  baffled  hopes,  the  impulse  slow, 

Thou  takest,  touchest  all,  and  lo  ! 
They  blossom  to  the  beautiful. 

We  need  not  wait  for  thunder-peal 

Resounding  from  a  mount  of  fire, 
While  round  our  daily  paths  we  feel 
Thy  sweet  love  and  thy  power  to  heal, 

Working  in  us  thy  full  desire. 


32  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


CHARLO1TE   BRONTE. 

"JRCHID,    chance-sown     among    the    moorland 

heather, 

Scarce  seen  or  tasted  by  the  infrequent  bee, 
Set    mid   rough    mountain    growths,   lashed    by  wild 

weather, 
With  none  to  foster  thee. 

We  watch  thee  fronting  all  the  blasts  of  heaven, 
Thy  slender  rootlets  grappled  fast  to  rock, 

Enduring  from  thy  morning  to  thy  even 
The  buffet  and  the  shock. 

Never  thy  sun  vouchsafed  a  cloudless  shining, 
Never  the  wind  was  tempered  to  thy  pain ; 

No  cloud  turned  out  for  thee  its  silver  lining, 
No  rainbow  followed  rain. 

Nourished  mid  hardness,  learning  patience  slowly 
As  hearts  must  do  which  know  no  other  food, 

Duty  and  Memory,  companions  holy, 
Shared  thy  bleak  solitude. 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.  33 

Cold  touch  of  Memory,  strong  chill  hand  of  Duty, 
These  held  thee  fast  and  ruled  thee  to  the  end, 

Until,  with  smile  mysterious  in  its  beauty, 
Came  Death,  rewarding  friend. 

Earth  gave  thee  scanty  cheer,  but  earth  is  ended, 
Finished  the  years  of  thwarted  sacrifice. 

We  see  thee  walking  forward,  well  attended, 
Led  into  Paradise  ! 

Heaven  is  twice  Heaven  to  one  who,  hungry- hearted, 
Goes  thither  knowing  no  satisfaction  here ; 

And  when  we  thank  the  Lord  for  those  departed 
In  this  sure  faith  and  fear, 

We  think  of  thee,  lonely  no  more  forever, 
And  tasting,  while  the  eternal  years  unroll, 

That  joy  of  Heaven,  which  like  a  flowing  river 
Satisfies  every  soul. 


34  END  AND  MEANS. 


END   AND   MEANS. 

E  spend  our  strength  in  labor  day  by  day, 
We  find  new  strength  replacing  old  alway ; 
And  still  we  cheat  ourselves,  and  still  we  say 

"  No  man  would  work  except  to  win  some  prize ; 
We  work  to  turn  our  hopes  to  certainties,  — 
For  gold,  or  gear,  or  favor  in  men's  eyes." 

And  all  the  while  the  goal  toward  which  we  strain  — 
Up  hill  and  down,  in  sunshine  and  in  rain, 
Heedless  of  toil,  if  so  we  may  attain  — 

Is  but  a  lure,  a  heavenly-set  decoy 
To  exercised  endeavor,  full  employ 
Of  every  power,  which  is  man's  highest  joy. 

And  work  becomes  the  end,  reward  the  means, 
To  woo  us  from  our  idleness  and  dreams ; 
And  each  is  truly  what  the  other  seems. 


END  AND  MEANS.  35 

So,  Lord,  with  such  poor  service  as  we  do, 

Thy  full  salvation  is  our  prize  in  view, 

For  which  we  long,  and  which  we  press  unto. 

Like  a  great  star  on  which  we  fix  our  eyes, 
It  dazzles  from  the  high,  blue  distances, 
And  seems  to  beckon  and  to  say,  "  Arise  !  " 

And  we  arise  and  follow  the  hard  way, 

Winning  a  little  nearer  day  by  day, 

Our  hearts  going  faster  than  our  footsteps  may ; 

And  never  guess  the  secret  sweet  device 
Which  lures  us  on  and  upward  to  the  skies, 
And  makes  each  toil  its  own  reward  and  prize. 

To  give  our  little  selves  to  thee,  to  blend 

Our  weakness  with  thy  strength,  O  Lord  our  Friend, 

This  is  life's  truest  privilege  and  end. 


36  COMFORTED. 


COMFORTED. 

HE  last  sweet  flowers  are  dying, 

The  last  green  leaves  are  red  ; 
The  wild  geese  southward  flying, 
By  law  mysterious  led, 
Scream  noisily  o'erhead ; 
The  honey-bees  have  hived  them, 
The  butterflies  have  shrived  them  ; 
All  hushed  the  song  and  twitter 
And  flutter  of  glad  wing  ;  — 

How  could  we  bear  the  autumn 
If  t'  were  not  for  the  spring  ? 

To  see  the  summer  banished, 

Nor  dare  to  bid  her  stay ; 
To  mourn  o'er  beauty  vanished 

And  joyance  driven  away ; 

To  mark  the  shortening  day ; 
To  note  the  sad  winds  plaining, 


COMFORTED. 

The  storm  cloud  and  the  raining ; 

To  see  the  frost  lance  stabbing 
Each  faint  and  wounded  thing ;  — 

Oh,  we  should  hate  the  autumn 
Excepting  for  the  spring  ! 

To  know  that  life  is  failing 

And  pulses  beating  slow ; 
To  catch  the  unavailing 

Sad  monotones  of  woe 

All  the  earth  over  go ; 
To  know  that  snows  must  cover 
The  grave  of  friend  and  lover, 

To  hide  them  from  the  eyes  and  hands 
That  still  caress  and  cling  ;  — 

The  heart  would  break  in  autumn 
If  there  were  not  a  spring  ! 

For  every  sleep  a  waking, 

For  every  shade  a  sun, 
A  balm  for  each  heart  breaking, 

A  rest  for  labor  done, 

A  life  by  death  begun  ; 


38  COMFORTED. 

And  so  in  wintry  weather, 
With  smile  and  sigh  together, 

We  look  beyond  the  present  pain, 
The  daily  loss  and  sting, 

And  welcome  in  the  autumn 
For  the  sure  hope  of  spring. 


WORDS.  39 


WORDS. 

LITTLE,  tender  word, 

Wrapped  in  a  little  rhyme, 
Sent  out  upon  the  passing  air, 


As  seeds  are  scattered  everywhere 
In  the  sweet  summer-time. 

A  little,  idle  word, 

Breathed  in  an  idle  hour  ; 
Between  two  laughs  that  word  was  said, 
Forgotten  as  soon  as  uttered, 

And  yet  the  word  had  power. 

Away  they  sped,  the  words  : 

One,  like  a  winged  seed, 
Lit  on  a  soul  which  gave  it  room, 
And  straight  began  to  bud  and  bloom 

In  lovely  word  and  deed. 

The  other  careless  word, 
Borne  on  an  evil  air, 


40  WORDS. 

Found  a  rich  soil,  and  ripened  fast 
Its  rank  and  poisonous  growths,  and  cast 
Fresh  seeds  to  work  elsewhere. 

The  speakers  of  the  words 

Passed  by  and  marked,  one  day, 
The  fragrant  blossoms  dewy  wet, 
The  baneful  flowers  thickly  set 
In  clustering  array. 

And  neither  knew  his  word  ; 

One  smiled,  and  one  did  sigh. 
"  How  strange  and  sad,"  one  said,  "  it  is 
People  should  do  such  things  as  this  ! 

I  'm  glad  it  was  not  I." 

And,  "  What  a  wondrous  word 

To  reach  so  far,  so  high  !  " 
The  other  said,  "  What  joy  't  would  be 
To  send  out  words  so  helpfully  ! 
I  wish  that  it  were  I." 


INFLUENCE.  41 


INFLUENCE. 

OUCHED  in  the  rocky  lap  of  hills, 

The  lake's  blue  waters  gleam, 
And  thence  in  linked  and  measured  rills 
Down  to  the  valley  stream, 
To  rise  again,  led  higher  and  higher, 
And  slake  the  city's  hot  desire. 

High  as  the  lake's  bright  ripples  shine, 

So  high  the  water  goes, 
But  not  a  drop  that  air-drawn  line 

Passes  or  overflows ; 

Though  man  may  strive  and  man  may  woo, 
The  stream  to  its  own  law  is  true. 

Vainly  the  lonely  tarn  its  cup 

Holds  to  the  feeding  skies ; 
Unless  the  source  be  lifted  up, 

The  streamlet  cannot  rise  : 
By  law  inexorably  blent, 
Each  is  the  other's  measurement. 


42  INFLUENCE. 

Ah,  lonely  tarn  !  ah,  striving  rill ! 

So  yearn  these  souls  of  ours, 
And  beat  with  sad  and  urgent  will 

Against  the  unheeding  powers. 
In  vain  is  longing,  vain  is  force ; 
No  stream  goes  higher  than  its  source. 


AN  EASTER  SONG.  43 


AN   EASTER  SONG. 

SONG  of  sunshine  through  the  rain, 

Of  spring  across  the  snow, 
A  balm  to  heal  the  hurts  of  pain, 
A  peace  surpassing  woe. 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  sorrowing  ones, 

And  be  ye  glad  of  heart, 
For  Calvary  and  Easter  Day, 
Earth's  saddest  day  and  gladdest  day, 
Were  just  one  day  apart ! 

With  shudder  of  despair  and  loss 

The  world's  deep  heart  was  wrung, 
As  lifted  high  upon  his  cross 

The  Lord  of  Glory  hung, 
When  rocks  were  rent,  and  ghostly  forms 

Stole  forth  in  street  and  mart ; 
But  Calvary  and  Easter  Day, 
Earth's  blackest  day  and  whitest  day, 

Were  just  one  day  apart ! 


44  AN  EASTER  SONG. 

No  hint  or  whisper  stirred  the  air 

To  tell  what  joy  should  be  ; 
The  sad  disciples,  grieving  there, 

Nor  help  nor  hope  could  see. 
Yet  all  the  while  the  glad,  near  sun 

Made  ready  its  swift  dart. 
And  Calvary  and  Easter  Day, 
The  darkest  day  and  brightest  day, 

Were  just  one  day  apart ! 

Oh,  when  the  strife  of  tongues  is  loud, 

And  the  heart  of  hope  beats  low, 
When  the  prophets  prophesy  of  ill, 

And  the  mourners  come  and  go, 
In  this  sure  thought  let  us  abide, 

And  keep  and  stay  our  heart,  — 
That  Calvary  and  Easter  Day, 
Earth's  heaviest  day  and  happiest  day, 

Were  but  one  day  apart ! 


SO  LONG  AGO.  45 


SO    LONG  AGO. 

HEY  stood  upon  the  vessel's  deck 
To  catch  our  farewell  look  and  beck. 
Two  girlish  figures,  fair  and  frail, 
Hovering  against  a  great  white  sail 
Like  spirit  shapes  in  dazzling  air,  — 
I  seem  to  see  them  standing  there, 
Always  together,  always  so,  — 
'T  was  long  ago,  oh,  long  ago  ! 

The  east  was  bright  with  yellow  noon, 
The  flying  vessel  vanished  soon. 
Flashes  of  jubilant  white  spray 
Beckoned  and  pointed  her  the  way. 
A  lessening  speck  she  outward  sped  ; 
Sadly  we  turned,  but  still  we  said, 
"They  will  come  back  again,  we  know,"- 
'T  was  long  ago,  so  long  ago  ! 


46  SO  LONG  AGO. 

Those  faces  sweet,  those  happy  eyes, 
Looked  nevermore  on  Western  skies ; 
Where  the  hot  sunbeams  weave  their  net 
O'er  cedar-crowned,  sad  Olivet, 
They  who  had  shared  their  lives  shared  death, 
Tasting  at  once  the  first  strange  breath 
Of  those  quick  airs  for  souls  that  flow 
So  long  ago,  so  long  ago  ! 

In  vain  we  picture  to  our  eyes 
The  convent  gray,  the  still,  blue  skies, 
The  mountain  with  its  bordering  wood  ;  — 
Still  do  they  stand  as  then  they  stood, 
Hovering  like  spirits  fair  and  frail 
Against  the  dazzle  of  the  sail ; 
The  red  lips  part,  the  faces  glow, 
As  long  ago,  so  long  ago  ! 


A   BIRTHDAY.  47 


A   BIRTHDAY. 

HAT  shall  I  do  to  keep  your  day, 

My  darling,  dead  for  many  a  year? 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  forget 
It  is  your  day  ;  and  yet,  and  yet  — 
It  is  so  hard  to  find  a  way 

To  keep  it,  now  you  are  not  here. 

I  cannot  add  the  lightest  thing 

To  the  full  sum  of  happiness 
Which  now  is  yours  ;  nor  dare  I  try 
To  frame  a  wish  for  you,  since  I 

Am  blind  to  know,  as  weak  to  bring, 
All  impotent  to  aid  or  bless. 

And  yet  it  is  your  day,  and  so, 

Unlike  all  other  days,  one  bead 
Of  gold  in  the  long  rosary 
Of  dull  beads  little  worth  to  me. 
And  I  must  keep  it  bright,  and  show 
That  what  is  yours  is  dear  indeed. 


48  A   BIRTHDAY. 

How  shall  I  keep  it  here  alone  ?  — 

With  prayers  in  which  your  name  is  set ; 
With  smiles,  not  tears  ;  and  sun,  not  rain  ; 
With  memories  sweeter  far  than  pain, 
With  tender  backward  glances  thrown, 
And  far  on-lookings,  clearer  yet. 

The  gift  I  would  have  given  to  you, 

And  which  you  cannot  need  or  take, 
Shall  still  be  given ;  and  it  shall  be 
A  secret  between  you  and  me,  — 
A  sweet  thought,  every  birthday  new, 
That  it  is  given  for  your  sake. 

And  so  your  day,  yours  safely  still, 

Shall  come  and  go  with  ebbing  time,  — 
The  day  of  all  the  year  most  sweet,  — 
Until  the  years  so  slow,  so  fleet, 
Shall  bring  me,  as  in  time  they  will, 

To  where  all  days  are  yours  and  mine. 


DERELICT.  49 


DERELICT. 

BANDONED  wrecks  they  plunge  and  drift, 

The  sport  of  sea  and  wind, 
The  tempest  drives,  the  billows  lift, 
The  aimless  sails  they  flap  and  shift 

With  impulse  vague  and  blind, 
As  tossing  on  from  wave  to  wave 
They  seek  —  and  shun  —  the  yawning  grave. 

The  decks  once  trodden  by  busy  feet 

Man  nevermore  shall  tread  ; 
The  cargoes  brave  of  wine  or  wheat, 
Now  soaked  with  salt  and  drenched  with  sleet, 

And  mixed  and  scattered, 
No  merchant  shall  appraise  or  buy 
Or  store  in  vat  or  granary. 

The  wet  ropes  pull  the  creaking  sails, 

As  though  by  hands  drawn  tight. 
Echoes  the  hold  with  ghostly  wails, 
While  daylight  wanes,  and  twilight  pales, 

And  drops  the  heavy  night, 


50  DERELICT. 

And  vast  and  silent  fish  swim  by, 
And  scan  the  wreck  with  cruel  eye. 

Ha  !  lights  ahead  !     A  ship  is  near  ! 

The  dumb  wreck  makes  no  sign ; 
No  lantern  shows,  returns  no  cheer, 
But  straight  and  full,  without  a  veer, 

Sped  by  the  urging  brine 
She  goes  —  a  crash  !  her  errand  done, 
The  deadly,  lonely  thing  drives  on. 

Oh,  hopeless  lives,  distorted,  crushed, 

Which,  like  the  lonely  wreck, 
Lashed  by  the  waves  and  tempest-tossed, 
With  rudder  gone  and  cargo  lost, 

Torn  ribs  and  leaking  deck, 
Plunge  on  through  sunshine  and  eclipse, 
A  menace  to  the  happier  ships. 

All  oceans  know  them,  and  all  lands. 

Speechless  they  drift  us  by  ; 
To  questioning  voices,  friendly  hands, 
Warnings  or  counsels  or  commands, 

Still  making  no  reply. 
God  send  them  help  if  help  may  be, 
Or  sink  them  harmless  in  his  sea. 


H.   H.  51 


H.  H. 

HAT  was  she  most  like  ?     Was  she  like  the  wind, 
Fresh  always,  and  untired  ;  intent  to  find 

New  fields  to  penetrate,  new  heights  to  gain ; 
Scattering  all  mists  with  sudden,  radiant  wing ; 
Stirring  the  languid  pulses  ;  quickening 
The  apathetic  mood,  the  weary  brain? 

Or  was  she  like  the  sun,  whose  gift  of  cheer 
Endureth  for  all  seasons  of  the  year, 

Alike  in  winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat? 
Or  like  the  sea,  which  brings  its  gifts  from  far, 
And  still,  wherever  want  and  straitness  are, 

Lays  down  a  sudden  largess  at  their  feet  ? 

Or  was  she  like  a  wood,  where  light  and  shade, 
And  sound  and  silence,  mingle  unafraid ; 
Where  mosses  cluster,  and,  in  coverts  dark, 


52  H.   H. 

Shy  blossoms  court  the  brief  and  wandering  air, 
Mysteriously  sweet ;  and  here  and  there 
A  firefly  flashes  like  a  sudden  spark  ? 

Or  like  a  wilful  brook,  which  laughs  and  leaps 
All  unexpectedly,  and  never  keeps 

The  course  predicted,  as  it  seaward  flows  ? 
Or  like  a  stream-fed  river,  brimming  high? 
Or  like  a  fruit,  where  those  who  love  descry 

A  pungent  charm  no  other  flavor  knows  ? 

I  cannot  find  her  type.     In  her  were  blent 
Each  varied  and  each  fortunate  element 

Which  souls  combine,  with  something  all  her  own, 
Sadness  and  mirthfulness,  a  chorded  strain, 
The  tender  heart,  the  keen  and  searching  brain, 

The  social  zest,  the  power  to  live  alone. 

Comrade  of  comrades,  giving  man  the  slip 
To  seek  in  Nature  truest  comradeship ; 

Tenacity  and  impulse  ruled  her  fate, 
This  grasping  firmly  what  that  flashed  to  feel,  — 
The  velvet  scabbard  and  the  sword  of  steel, 

The  gift  to  strongly  love,  to  frankly  hate  ! 


H.   H.  53 

Patience  as  strong  as  was  her  hopefulness ; 
A  joy  in  living  which  grew  never  less 

As  years  went  on  and  age  drew  gravely  nigh ; 
Vision  which  pierced  the  veiling  mists  of  pain, 
And  saw  beyond  the  mortal  shadows  plain 

The  eternal  day-dawn  broadening  in  the  sky. 

The  love  of  Doing,  and  the  scorn  of  Done  ; 
The  playful  fancy,  which,  like  glinting  sun, 

No  chill  could  daunt,  no  loneliness  could  smother. 
Upon  her  ardent  pulse  Death's  cbillness  lies  ; 
Closed  the  brave  lips,  the  merry,  questioning  eyes. 

She  was  herself !  —  there  is  not  such  another. 


54  FREEDOM. 


FREEDOM. 

WOULD  be  free  !     For  freedom  is  all  fair, 

And  her  strong  smile  is  like  the  smile  of  God. 
Her  voice  rings  out  like  trumpet  on  the  air, 
And  men  rise  up  and  follow ;  though  the  road 
Be  all  unknown  and  hard  to  understand, 
They  tread  it  gladly,  holding  Freedom's  hand. 

I  would  be  free  !     The  little  spark  of  Heaven 
Let  in  my  soul  when  life  was  breathed  in  me 

Is  like  a  flame,  this  way  and  that  way  driven 
By  ever  wavering  winds,  which  ceaselessly 

Kindle  and  blow  till  all  my  soul  is  hot, 

And  would  consume  if  liberty  were  not. 

I  would  be  free  !     But  what  is  freedom,  then  ? 

For  widely  various  are  the  shapes  she  wears 
In  different  ages  and  to  different  men ; 

And  many  titles,  many  forms  she  bears,  — 
Riot  and  revolution,  sword  and  flame, 
All  called  in  turn  by  Freedom's  honored  name. 


FREEDOM.  55 

I  would  be  free  !     Not  free  to  burn  and  spoil, 
To  trample  down  the  weak  and  smite  the  strong, 

To  seize  the  larger  share  of  wine  and  oil, 
And  rob  the  sun  my  daylight  to  prolong, 

And  rob  the  night  of  sleep  while  others  wake,  — 

Feast  on  their  famine,  basely  free  to  take. 

I  would  be  free  !  Free  in  a  dearer  way, 
Free  to  become  all  that  I  may  or  can  ; 

To  be  my  best  and  utmost  self  each  day, 
Not  held  or  bound  by  any  chain  of  man, 

By  dull  convention,  or  by  foolish  sneer, 

Or  love's  mistaken  clasp  of  feeble  fear. 

Free  to  be  kind  and  true  and  faithful ;  free 
To  do  the  happy  thing  that  makes  life  good, 

To  grow  as  grows  the  goodly  forest-tree ; 
By  none  gainsaid,  by  none  misunderstood, 

To  taste  life's  freshness  with  a  child's  delight, 

And  find  new  joy  in  every  day  and  night. 

I  would  be  free  !     Ah  !  so  may  all  be  free. 

Then  shall  the  world  grow  sweet  at  core  and  sound. 
And,  moved  in  blest  and  ordered  circuit,  see 

The  bright  millennial  sun  rise  fair  and  round, 
Heaven's  day  begin,  and  Christ,  whose  service  is 
Freedom  all  perfect,  rule  the  world  as  his. 


$6          THE    VISION  AND   THE  SUMMONS. 


THE  VISION   AND  THE   SUMMONS. 

HE  trance  of  golden  afternoon 

Lay  on  the  Judaean  skies  ; 
The  trance  of  vision,  like  a  swoon, 
Sealed  the  Apostle's  eyes. 
Upon  the  roof  he  sat  and  saw 
Angelic  hands  let  down  and  draw 
Again  the  mighty  vessel  full 
Of  beasts  and  birds  innumerable. 

Three  times  the  heavenly  vision  fell, 

Three  times  the  Lord's  voice  spoke  ; 
When  Peter,  loath  to  break  the  spell, 
Roused  from  his  trance,  and  woke, 
To  hear  a  common  sound  and  rude, 
Which  jarred  and  shook  his  solitude,  — 
A  knocking  at  the  doorway  near, 
Where  stood  the  two  from  Csesarea. 


THE   VISION  AND    THE  SUMMONS.        $7 

And  should  he  heed,  or  should  he  stay? 

Scarce  had  the  vision  fled,  — 
Perchance  it  might  return  that  day, 

Perchance  more  words  be  said 
By  the  Lord's  voice  ?  —  he  rises  slow ; 
Again  the  knocking ;  he  must  go  ; 
Nor  guessed,  while  going  down  the  stair, 
That  't  was  the  Lord  who  called  him  there. 

Had  he  sat  still  upon  the  roof, 

Wooing  the  vision  long, 
The  Gentile  world  had  missed  the  truth, 

And  Heaven  one  "  sweet  new  song." 
Souls  might  have  perished  in  blind  pain, 
And  the  Lord  Christ  have  died  in  vain 
For  them.     He  knew  not  what  it  meant, 
But  Peter  rose  and  Peter  went. 

Oh,  souls  which  sit  in  upper  air, 

Longing  for  heavenly  sight, 
Glimpses  of  truth  all  fleeting-fair, 

Set  in  unearthly  light,  — 
Is  there  no  knocking  heard  below, 
For  which  you  should  arise  and  go, 


58        THE    VISION  AND    THE  SUMMONS. 

Leaving  the  vision,  and  again 
Bearing  its  message  unto  men? 

Sordid  the  world  were  vision  not, 

But  fruitless  were  your  stay ; 
So,  having  seen  the  sight,  and  got 

The  message,  haste  away. 
Though  pure  and  bright  thy  higher  air, 
And  hot  the  street  and  dull  the  stair, 
Still  get  thee  down,  for  who  shall  know 
But  't  is  the  Lord  who  knocks  below  ? 


FORECAST.  59 


FORECAST. 

LWAYS  when  the  roses  bloom  most  brightly, 
Some  sad  heart  is  sure  to  presage  blight ; 
Always  when  the  breeze  is  kindliest  blowing 
There  are  eyes  that  look  out  for  a  gale ; 
Always  when  the  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly 

Comes  some  croaking  proverb  to  affright, 
And  in  sweetest  music  grieving  blindly 
Sits  the  shadow  of  a  sorrow  pale. 

Though  to-day  says  not  a  word  to  sadden, 

Still  to-morrow's  menace  fills  my  ear. 
Less  intent  on  this  than  that  I  hie  me, 

Fearful,  eager,  all  the  worst  to  know, 
Missing  that  which  might  the  moment  gladden, 

For  the  prescience  of  a  far-off  fear, 
Which  again  and  yet  again  flits  by  me, 

Clouding  all  the  sunshine  as  I  go. 


60  FORECAST. 

There  is  manna  for  the  day's  supplying, 

There  are  daily  dews  and  daily  balms, 
Yet  I  shrink  and  shudder  to  remember 

All  the  desert  drought  I  yet  may  see. 
Past  the  green  oasis  fare  I,  sighing, 

Caring  not  to  rest  beneath  the  palms. 
All  my  May  is  darkened  by  December, 

All  my  laughter  by  the  tears  to  be. 

Must  my  life  go  on  thus  to  its  closing  ? 

Lord,  hold  fast  this  restless  heart  of  mine 
Put  thy  arm  about  me  when  I  shiver, 

Make  me  feel  thy  presence  all  the  way. 
Hope  and  fear,  and  travail  and  reposing, 

All  by  thee  are  cared  for,  all  are  thine, 
Quick  to  help,  sufficient  to  deliver, 

Near  in  sun  and  shade,  in  night  and  day. 


EARLY   TAKEN.  6 1 


EARLY  TAKEN. 

i|HE  seemed  so  young,  so  young  to  die  ! 
Life,  like  a  dawning,  rosy  day, 
Stretched  from  her  fair  young  feet  away, 
And  beams  from  the  just-risen  sun 
Beckoned  and  wooed  and  urged  her  on. 
She  met  the  light  with  happy  eyes, 
Fresh  with  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
And  held  her  sweet  hands  out  to  grasp 
The  joys  that  crowded  to  her  clasp, 
Each  a  surprise,  and  all  so  dear : 
How  could  we  guess  that  night  was  near? 

She  seemed  so  young,  so  young  to  die  ! 
When  the  old  go,  we  sadly  say, 
'T  is  Nature's  own  appointed  way  ; 
The  ripe  grain  gathered  in  must  be, 
The  ripe  fruit  from  the  laden  tree, 
The  sear  leaf  quit  the  bare,  brown  bough ; 
Summer  is  done,  't  is  autumn  now, 


62  EARLY  TAKEN. 

God's  harvest-time  ;  the  sheaves  among, 
His  angels  raise  the  reaping- song, 
And  though  we  grieve,  we  would  not  stay 
The  shining  sickles  on  their  way. 

She  seemed  so  young,  so  young  to  die  ! 
We  question  wearily  and  vain 
What  never  answer  shall  make  plain  : 
"  Can  it  be  this  the  good  Lord  meant 
Which  frustrates  his  benign  intent? 
Why  was  she  planted  like  a  flower 
In  mortal  sun  and  mortal  shower, 
And  left  to  grow,  and  taught  to  bloom, 
To  gather  beauty  and  perfume  ; 
Why  were  we  set  to  train  and  tend 
If  only  for  this  bootless  end?  " 

She  seemed  so  young,  so  young  to  die  ! 
But  age  and  youth,  —  what  do  they  mean 
Measured  by  the  eternal  scheme 
Of  God,  and  sifted  out  and  laid 
In  his  unerring  scales  and  weighed  ? 
How  may  we  test  their  sense  or  worth,  — 
These  poor  glib  phrases,  born  of  earth, 


EARLY  TAKEN.  63 

False  accents  of  a  long  exile,  — 
Or  know  the  angels  do  not  smile, 
Holding  out  truth's  immortal  gauge, 
To  hear  us  prate  of  youth  and  age  ? 

She  seemed  so  young,  so  young  to  die  ! 
So  needed  here  by  every  one, 
Nor  there  ;  for  heaven  has  need  of  none. 
And  yet,  how  can  we  tell  or  say? 
Heaven  is  so  far,  so  far  away  ! 
How  do  we  know  its  blissful  store 
Is  full  and  needeth  nothing  more? 
It  may  be  that  some  tiny  space 
Lacked  just  that  little  angel  face, 
Or  the  full  sunshine  missed  one  ray 
Until  our  darling  found  the  way. 


64          SOME  LOVER'S  DEAR   THOUGHT. 


SOME   LOVER'S  DEAR  THOUGHT. 

OUGHT  to  be  kinder  always, 

For  the  light  of  his  kindly  eyes ; 
I  ought  to  be  wiser  always, 
Because  he  is  so  just  and  wise ; 
And  gentler  in  all  my  bearing, 
And  braver  in  all  my  daring, 

For  the  patience  that  in  him  lies. 

I  must  be  as  true  as  the  Heaven 
While  he  is  as  true  as  the  day, 

Nor  balance  the  gift  with  the  given, 
For  he  giveth  to  me  alway. 

And  I  must  be  firm  and  steady ; 

For  my  Love,  he  is  that  already, 
And  I  follow  him  as  I  may. 

O  dear  little  golden  fetter, 

You  bind  me  to  difficult  things  ; 


SOME  LOVER'S  DEAR    THOUGHT.         65 

But  my  soul  while  it  strives  grows  better, 

And  I  feel  the  stirring  of  wings 
As  I  stumble,  doubting  and  dreading, 
Up  the  path  of  his  stronger  treading, 

Intent  on  his  beckonings. 


66  ASHES. 


ASHES. 

SAW  the  gardener  bring  and  strew 

Gray  ashes  where  blush  roses  grew. 
The  fair,  still  roses  bent  them  low, 

Their  pink  cheeks  dimpled  all  with  dew, 
And  seemed  to  view  with  pitying  air 
The  dim  gray  atoms  lying  there. 

Ah,  bonny  rose,  all  fragrances, 
And  life  and  hope  and  quick  desires, 

What  can  you  need  or  gain  from  these 
Poor  ghosts  of  long-forgotten  fires  ? 

The  rose-tree  leans,  the  rose-tree  sighs, 

And  wafts  this  answer  subtly  wise  : 
"  All  death,  all  life  are  mixed  and  blent, 
Out  of  dead  lives  fresh  life  is  sent, 

Sorrow  to  these  is  growth  for  me, 

And  who  shall  question  God's  decree?" 


ASHES.  67 

Ah,  dreary  life,  whose  gladsome  spark 

No  longer  leaps  in  song  and  fire, 
But  lies  in  ashes  gray  and  stark, 

Defeated  hopes  and  dead  desire, 
Useless  and  dull  and  all  bereft,  — 
Take  courage,  this  one  thing  is  left : 

Some  happier  life  may  use  thee  so, 
Some  flower  bloom  fairer  on  its  tree, 

Some  sweet  or  tender  thing  may  grow 
To  stronger  life  because  of  thee  ; 

Content  to  play  a  humble  part, 

Give  of  the  ashes  of  thy  heart, 
And  haply  God,  whose  dear  decrees 
Taketh  from  those  to  give  to  these, 

Who  draws  the  snow-drop  from  the  snows 

May  from  those  ashes  feed  a  rose. 


68  ONE  LESSER  JOY. 


ONE   LESSER  JOY. 

| HAT  is  the  dearest  happiness  of  heaven? 

Ah,  who  shall  say  ! 

So  many  wonders,  and  so  wondrous  fair, 
Await  the  soul  who,  just  arrived  there 
In  trance  of  safety,  sheltered  and  forgiven, 
Opens  glad  eyes  to  front  the  eternal  day : 

Relief  from  earth's  corroding  discontent, 

Relief  from  pain, 

The  satisfaction  of  perplexing  fears, 
Full  compensation  for  the  long,  hard  years, 

Full  understanding  of  the  Lord's  intent, 

The  things  that  were  so  puzzling  made  quite  plain  ; 

And  all  astonished  joy  as,  to  the  spot, 

From  further  skies, 

Crowd  our  beloved  with  white  winged  feet, 
And  voices  than  the  chiming  harps  more  sweet, 


ONE  LESSER  JOY.  69 

Faces  whose  fairness  we  had  half  forgot, 

And  outstretched  hands,  and  welcome  in  their  eyes ;  — 

Heart  cannot  image  forth  the  endless  store 

We  may  but  guess  ; 
But  this  one  lesser  joy  I  hold  my  own  : 
All  shall  be  known  in  heaven ;  at  last  be  known 

The  best  and  worst  of  me  ;  the  less,  the  more, 
My  own  shall  know  —  and  shall  not  love  me  less. 

Oh,  haunting  shadowy  dread  which  underlies 
All  loving  here  ! 

We  inly  shiver  as  we  whisper  low, 
"  Oh,  if  they  knew  —  if  they  could  only  know, 
Could  see  our  naked  souls  without  disguise  — 

How  they  would  shrink  from  us  and  pale  with  fear  !  " 

The  bitter  thoughts  we  hold  in  leash  within 

But  do  not  kill ; 

The  petty  anger  and  the  mean  desire, 
The  jealousy  which  burns,  —  a  smouldering  fire,  — 

The  slimy  trail  of  half-unnoted  sin, 

The  sordid  wish  which  daunts  the  nobler  will. 


70  ONE  LESSER  JOY. 

We  fight  each  day  with  foes  we  dare  not  name. 
We  fight,  we  fail ! 

Noiseless  the  conflict  and  unseen  of  men ; 

We  rise,  are  beaten  down,  and  rise  again, 
And  all  the  time  we  smile,  we  move,  the  same, 

And  even  to  dearest  eyes  draw  close  the  veil. 

But  in  the  blessed  heaven  these  wars  are  past ; 

Disguise  is  o'er  ! 

With  new  anointed  vision,  face  to  face, 
We  shall  see  all,  and  clasped  in  close  embrace 

Shall  watch  the  haunting  shadow  flee  at  last, 
And  know  as  we  are  known,  and  fear  no  more. 


CLOSE  AT  HAND.  Jl 


CLOSE   AT   HAND. 


"Din  you  not  know  Me,  my  child?  "  the  lips  and  eyes  that  were 
all  love  seemed  to  say  to  her.  "  You  have  thought  the  thoughts 
that  I  inspired,  you  have  spoken  my  words,  you  set  forth  to  fight 
on  my  side  in  the  battle  against  evil ;  and  yet  you  forget  me,  and 
have  often  gone  near  to  deny  me,  while  I  was  standing  by  your 
side  and  giving  you  the  strength  to  speak  and  think.  Look  at  me 
now,  and  see  if  I  am  not  better  than  the  images  that  have  hid  me 
from  you."  —  A  Doubting  Heart. 


HE  day  is  long,  and  the  day  is  hard  ; 
We  are  tired  of  the  march  and  of  keeping  guard, 
Tired  of  the  sense  of  a  fight  to  be  won, 

Of  days  to  live  through  and  of  work  to  be  done, 

Tired  of  ourselves  and  of  being  alone. 

And  all  the  while,  did  we  only  see, 
We  walk  in  the  Lord's  own  company ; 
We  fight,  but  't  is  he  who  nerves  our  arm, 
He  turns  the  arrows  which  else  might  harm, 
And  out  of  the  storm  he  brings  a  calm. 


/2  CLOSE  AT  HAND. 

The  work  which  we  count  so  hard  to  do, 
He  makes  it  easy,  for  he  works  too ; 
The  days  that  are  long  to  live  are  his, 
A  bit  of  his  bright  eternities, 
And  close  to  our  need  his  helping  is. 

O  eyes  that  were  holden  and  blinded  quite, 
And  caught  no  glimpse  of  the  guiding  light 
O  deaf,  deaf  ears  which  did  not  hear 
The  heavenly  garment  trailing  near  ! 
O  faithless  heart,  which  dared  to  fear  ! 


ONLY  A   DREAM.  73 


ONLY   A   DREAM. 

DREAMED  we  sat  within  a  shaded  place, 

Where  mournful  waters  fell,  and  no  sun  shone  ; 
And  suddenly,  a  smile  upon  his  face, 
There  came  to  us  a  winged,  mysterious  one, 
And  said,  with  pitying  eyes  :  "  O  mourning  souls,  arise  ! 

"  Take  up  your  travelling  staves,  your  sandals  lace, 
And  journey  to  the  Northland  and  the  snow, 

Where  wild  and  leaping  Borealis  trace 
Fantastic,  glistening  dances  to  and  fro  ; 

Where  suns  at  midnight  beam,  to  fright  the  sleeper's 
dream. 

"  There,  in  the  icy,  solitary  waste, 

God's  goodness  grants  this  boon, — that  thou  shalt  see, 
And  hold  communion  for  a  little  space 

With  that  dear  child  so  lately  gone  from  thee. 
Arise,  and  haste  away ;  God  may  not  let  her  stay." 


74  ONLY  A    DREAM. 

So  we  arose,  and  quickly  we  went  forth ; 

How  could  we  slight  such  all  undreamed-of  boon  ? 
And  when  we  reached  the  ultimate  far  North  — 

All  in  a  hush  of  frozen  afternoon, 
Lit  by  a  dim  sun-ray,  liker  to  night  than  day  — 

There,  o'er  the  white  bare  feld  we  saw  her  come, 
Our  little  maid,  in  the  dear  guise  we  knew, 

With  the  same  look  she  used  to  wear  at  home, 

The  same  sweet  eyes  of  deepest,  dark-fringed  blue  ; 

Her  steps  they  made  no  sound  upon  the  icy  ground. 

She  kissed  us  gently,  and  she  stood  and  smiled, 

While  close  we  clasped  and  questioned  her,  and  strove 

To  win  some  hint  or  answer  from  the  child 
That  should  appease  the  hunger  of  our  love, 

Something  to  soothe  the  pain  when  she  must  go  again. 

And  was  she  happy,  happier  than  of  old  ? 

Did  heaven  fulfil  its  promises  of  bliss? 
And  had  she  seen  our  other  dead,  and  told 

The  story  of  that  loving  faithfulness 
Which  held  them  dearly  yet  and  never  would  forget? 

To  all  these  questions  she  made  no  replies  : 
She  only  smiled  a  softly  wistful  smile, 


ONLY  A   DREAM.  75 

And  looked  with  gentle  eyes  into  our  eyes, 
And  kissed  us  back  ;  and  in  a  little  while 
She  said,  "  Now  I  must  go  ;  my  Lady  told  me  so." 

Then  jealously  we  cried  :  "  What  is  the  name 
Of  this  thy  '  Lady '  ?     Is  she  good  to  thee  ? 

Has  she  above  all  other  angels  claim 
To  thine  obedience,  dear ;  or  can  it  be 

The  Mother  of  our  Lord  ?  "     She  answered  not  a  word  ! 

But  sighed,  and  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips, 

And  kissed  us  all,  and  straightway  from  our  sight, 

As  twilight  wanes  and  melts  in  night's  eclipse, 
She  vanished,  and  we  looked  to  left  and  right, 

And  wildly  called  her  name,  but,  oh  !  no  answer  came. 

And  with  the  anguished  call  the  vision  broke, 
The  equal  sky  of  summer  shone  o'erhead  ; 

The  earliest  birds  were  singing  as  I  woke,  — 
All  was  a  dream,  except  that  she  was  dead, 

And  that  familiar  pain  I  tasted  once  again. 

Thank  God,  it  was  a  dream  !     How  could  we  bear 
To  see  her  stand  with  wistful  eyes  down  bent, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  she  used  to  wear, 
And  know  her  sad  and  only  half-content, 

And  shy  and  puzzled  even,  as  if  not  used  to  heaven  ? 


76  ONLY  A   DREAM. 

Better,  far  better,  not  to  know  or  see  ! 

O  Lord,  whose  faithfulness  all  ages  prove, 
We  trust  the  darling  of  our  hearts  to  thee, 

Asking  no  explanations  of  thy  love  ; 
Keep  thou  her  safe  alway,  and  give  her  back  some  day. 


AT  THE  ALTAR.  77 


AT  THE  ALTAR. 

KNEEL  before  thine  altar,  Lord,  and  fain  a  gift 
would  bring, 

But  all  I  have  is  worthless  and  unfit  for  offering ; 
A  foolish  heart,  a  foolish  dream,  a  foolish,  fruitless  pain,  — 
Such  are  my  all ;  O  Love  of  Love,  do  not  the  gift  disdain  ! 

And  even  as  earthly  monarchs  do,  who  take  the  tribute 

given, 
And  quick  restore,  by  royal  grace  increased  to  seven  times 

seven, 

So  take,  O  Lord,  my  offering,  and  vouchsafe  me  presently, 
For  emptiness  thy  fulness,  for  my  hunger  thy  supply. 

I  lay  my  heart  down  at  thy  feet,  that  tired  heart  and  old, 
Whose  youthful  throb  has  grown  so  faint,  whose  youthful 

fire  so  cold ; 
Heart  of  the  world's  heart,  Lord  of  joy,  and  mighty  Lord 

of  pain, 
Take  thou  the  gift,  and  quicken  it,  and  give  it  back  again. 


7«  AT  THE  ALTAR. 

My  foolish  dream,  so  dear,  so  prized,  baptized  in  many 

tears, 
Loved  even  as  sickly  children  are,  the  more  for  doubts  and 

fears, 

0  Lord,  whose  word  is  faithfulness  eternal  to  endure, 
Take  it ;  and  give  me,  in  its  stead,  the  Hope  that  standeth 

sure. 

The  pain,  that  half  was  baffled  will,  which  could  not  bear 

to  die, 
And,  stilled  by  day,  would  stir  by  night  and  wake  me  with 

its  cry, 
That  pain  so  close,  so  intimate,  that  Death  could  scarce 

destroy, 

1  leave  it,  Lord,  before  thy  feet ;  give  me  instead  thy  joy. 

All  empty-handed  came  I  in,  full-handed  forth  I  go ; 
Go  thou  beside  me,  Lord  of  Grace,  and  keep  me  ever  so. 
Thanks  are  poor  things  for  such  wide  good,  but  all  my  life 

is  thine,  — 
Thou  who  hast  turned  my  stones  to  bread,  my  water  into 

wine. 


ETERNITY.  79 


ETERNITY. 

LITTLE  waves,  which  kiss  the  sands 

With  cool,  caressing  lips  of  foam, 
And  murmurs  soft,  and  outstretched  hands, 

Like  glad,  tired  children  nearing  home, 
O  little  waves,  so  soft,  so  small, 
How  are  you  linked,  if  linked  at  all, 
To  those  mid-ocean  billows  strong, 
By  fierce  winds  scourged  and  driven  along, 
Tossed  up  to  heaven,  and  then  again 
Sucked  in  black  gulfs  of  whelming  main  ; 
Never  at  rest  and  never  spent? 
Urged  by  a  speeding  discontent, 
A  seething  strife  which  knows  not  ease, 
Are  you  akin  to  such  as  these  ? 
The  little  waves  they  flash  and  rise, 

And  lisp  this  answer  wonderingly, 
With  laughter  in  their  glancing  eyes  : 

"They  are  the  sea  —  we  are  the  sea." 


8o  ETERNITY. 

O  small,  spent  waves  of  surging  time, 

Which  break  and  fall  upon  life's  shore 
With  soft  and  intermittent  chime, 

A  moment  seen,  then  seen  no  more, 
How  are  you  linked,  if  linked  you  be, 
To  that  great  dark  eternity 
Which  stretches  far  beyond  our  gaze, 
And  rounds  our  nights  and  rounds  our  days  ? 
We  see  its  darkling  billows  flow, 
But  dare  not  follow  where  they  go, 
Nor  guess  what  distance  dim  and  vast 
They  span  to  find  a  shore  at  last. 
O  little  waves,  what  share  have  ye 
In  this  great  dim  eternity? 
The  fleet  waves  answer  as  they  run  : 

"  Or  near,  or  far,  one  name  have  we, 
Time  and  eternity  are  one  ; 

It  is  the  sea — we  are  the  sea." 


RESTFULNESS.  8 1 


RESTFULNESS. 

time  my  restless  wishes  fought  and  strove, 
Long  time  I  bent  me  to  the  heavy  task 
Of  winning  such  full  recompense  of  love 
As  dream  could  paint,  importunate  fancy  ask. 

Morning  and  night  a  hunger  filled  my  soul ; 

Ever  my  eager  hands  went  out  to  sue ; 
And  still  I  sped  toward  a  shifting  goal, 

And  still  the  horizon  widened  as  I  flew. 

There  was  no  joy  in  love,  but  jealous  wrath  ; 

I  walked  athirst  all  day,  and  did  not  heed 
The  wayside  brooks  which  followed  by  my  path 

And  held  their  cooling  threadlets  to  my  need. 

But  now,  these  warring  fancies  left  behind, 

I  sit  in  clear  air  with  the  sun  o'erhead, 
And  take  my  share,  repining  not,  and  find 

Perpetual  feast  in  just  such  daily  bread  : 


82  RESTFULNESS. 

Asking  no  more  than  what  unasked  is  sent ; 

Freedom  is  dearer  still  than  love  may  be ; 
And  I,  my  dearest,  am  at  last  content, 

Content  to  love  thee  and  to  leave  thee  free. 

Love  me  then  not,  for  pity  nor  for  prayer, 

But  as  the  sunshine  loveth  and  the  rain, 
Which  speed  them  gladly  through  the  upper  air 

Because  the  gracious  pathway  is  made  plain. 

And  as  we  watch  the  slant  lines,  gold  and  dun, 
Bridge  heaven's  distance  all  intent  to  bless, 

And  cavil  not  if  we  or  other  one 

Shall  have  the  larger  portion  or  the  less, 

So  with  unvexed  eye  I  mark  and  see 

Where  blessed  and  blessing  your  sweet  days  are  spent ; 
And  though  another  win  more  love  from  thee, 

Having  my  share  I  am  therewith  content. 


IN  AND   ON.  83 


IN   AND    ON. 

On  earth  as  in  heaven.  —  The  Lord's  Prayer. 

N  earth  we  take  but  feeble  hold ; 

Joy  is  not  confident  or  bold ; 

We  dare  not  strike  deep  roots  and  stay, 
Nor  trust  to-morrow  or  to-day. 
We  scatter  grain  beneath  frail  skies, 
And  note  its  shoot  and  watch  its  rise, 
And  do  not  know  or  guess  a  whit 
What  other  hands  shall  garner  it. 
We  raise  our  songs,  but  fast  and  soon 
Our  voices  unto  silence  die, 
And  other  voices  end  the  tune 
Which,  too,  shall  falter  presently. 
"  Forever  "  is  our  idle  oath  ; 
But  while  the  word  is  on  our  lip 
Night  falls,  and  past  and  future  both 
Out  of  our  hold  and  keeping  slip. 
We  dare  not  love  as  angels  may, 


84  IN  AND    ON. 

Lest  love  should  fail  us  or  betray ; 
And  life  goes  on  and  we  go  hence, 
Nor  never  know  continuance. 

In  heaven  is  safety  and  sure  peace  ; 
There  is  no  waning  nor  decrease. 
The  endless  ages  ebb  and  flow, 
The  endless  harvests  riper  grow ; 
Fast  in  the  rich  eternal  mould 
The  heart's  deep  roots  take  hold,  take  hold 
-  With  the  strong  joy  of  permanence, 
Never  to  be  transplanted  thence. 
Sweet  songs  are  sung  to  very  close, 
Sweet  closes  recommence  and  blend  ; 
And  still  as  rose-bud  answers  rose 
The  new  strains  grow,  the  old  strains  end. 
Forever  means  forever  there  ; 
New  joy  past  sorrow  reconciles, 
And  hung  in  clear  and  golden  air 
An  undeceiving  morrow  smiles. 
While  Love  the  law  and  Love  the  sun 
Blesses  and  warms  and  saves  each  one  ; 
And  God's  dear  will,  our  earthly  prayer, 
Is  made  quite  plain  and  perfect  there. 


A   DAY-TIME  MOON.  85 


A   DAY-TIME   MOON. 

P  in  the  shining  and  sun-lighted  blue, 

Where  foam-white  clouds  sail  like  a  fairy  fleet, 
The    pale    moon    hovers,    glimmering    wanly 

through, 
Like  a  sad  chord  in  chorus  gay  and  sweet. 

Frailer  than  cloud  she  seems,  and  torn  and  frayed ; 

A  little  wandering  fragment,  drifting  slow, 
Of  that  brave  golden  summer  moon  which  made 

Midnight  so  beautiful  awhile  ago. 

Why  comes  she  back  at  this  untimely  hour, 
When  noon  is  nigh  and  birds  are  singing  clear, 

And  the  fierce  sun,  her  rival,  burns  with  power?  — 
What  can  the  poor,  the  pretty  moon  want  here? 

Does  she  feel  lonely  in  the  peopled  sky, 

The  only  moon  among  a  starry  host ; 
They  all  together  in  brave  company, 

She  wandering  solitary  as  a  ghost  ? 


86  A   DAY-TIME  MOON. 

Or  does  she  grieve  that  we  so  soon  forget 
The  perfect  beauty  of  her  tempered  ray, 

Drowsily  praising  her  sweet  beams,  but  yet 
Keeping  our  real  joyance  for  the  day  ? 

Poor,  pallid  moon,  with  a  reproachful  face 
She  eyes  the  humming  world  as  on  it  moves, 

Yearning  through  the  vast  intervening  space 
For  some  one  who  remembers  her  and  loves. 

And  like  a  homesick  spirit,  sad  at  heart, 
To  heaven's  happy  ways  not  wonted  yet, 

She  seems  to  murmur  when  she  strays  apart : 
"  I  still  am  faithful ;  but  you  all  forget." 


A   MIDNIGHT  SUN.  87 


A  MIDNIGHT  SUN. 

EARFUL  of  rivalry  thou  canst  not  be. 

How  should  the  pure,  pale  moon  dispute  the 

sun ; 
Or  the  innumerable  company 

Of  scintillant  stars,  though  banded  all  as  one  ? 

One  glance  of  thy  hot  anger  can  dismay 
The  boldest  planet  till  he  fades  and  flees, 

And  hastes  to  bury  his  affrighted  ray 
In  far,  uncalculated  distances. 

Why  linger  then  to  rule  the  midnight  sky, 

Baffling  celestial  rule,  and  vexing  men 
Who  watched  thy  sinking  but  an  hour  gone  by 

Only  to  see  thee  turn  thy  steps  again  ? 

The  drowsy  birds  are  drooping  on  the  trees, 
The  cock's  faint  crow  but  dimly  prophesies  ; 

The  weary  peasant  slumbers  ill  at  ease, 

And  blinks  and  winks,  half  wakes  and  rubs  his  eyes. 


8  A   MIDNIGHT  SUN. 

The  east  it  flushes  wanly,  as  in  doubt ; 

Foams  with  unrest  the  roused  and  wrathful  sea ; 
The  scared  moon  peeped,  then  turned  her  round  about, 

And  fled  across  the  heavens  at  sight  of  thee. 

Sovereign  of  day  thou  art  by  law  divine, 
None  shall  thy  rulership  or  sway  divide ; 

The  dawning  and  the  rosy  morn  are  thine, 
The  busy  afternoon  and  hot  noontide. 

But  dusk  of  breezy  twilight  firefly-lit, 

With  chirp  of  drowsy  bird  and  flash  of  dew, 

And  children  clasping  sleep  while  shunning  it, 
And  midnight,  with  its  deep,  mysterious  blue,  — 

These  are  the  properties  and  appanage 

Of  sovereign  Night,  thy  equal  and  thy  foe  ; 

And  when  she  cometh  and  flings  down  her  gage 
And  claims  her  kingdom,  't  is  thy  time  to  go. 

And  when  in  turn  thou  comest  she  must  flee. 

Each  has  a  realm,  and  each  must  reign  alone ; 
And  not  for  her  remains  and  not  for  thee 

To  seize  and  claim  an  undivided  throne. 


A   MIDNIGHT  SL7N.  89 

The  sky  it  loves  thee,  but  it  loves  the  moon ; 

The  world  it  needs  thee,  but  it  needs  the  night. 
Blind  us  not,  then,  with  thine  inopportune, 

Bewildering,  and  unexpected  light. 

Leave  us  to  sleep,  and  duly  take  thy  rest. 

Vain  is  the  plea ;  the  king  is  on  his  way, 
And,  following  his  tossing  golden  crest, 

Comes  the  long  train  of  hours,  and  it  is  Day. 


90  HER    VOICE. 

HER   VOICE. 
K.  R.  J. 

HERE  is  the  voice  gone  which  so  many  years, 

Each  year  grown  sweeter,  rose  in  glorious  song, 
Interpreting  to  all  our  hearts  and  ears 
Ecstasy,  passion,  pain,  the  yearning  strong 
Of  baffled  love,  the  patience  stronger  yet, 
The  pang  of  hope,  the  sweetness  of  regret  ? 

How  should  that  perish  which  seemed  born  of  heaven 
And  framed  to  breathe  the  meaning  of  the  skies? 

Can  music  render  back  such  gift  once  given ; 
Or  bear  to  know  some  subtlest  harmonies 

Must  evermore  go  half  expressed,  perceived, 

Forever  thwarted  and  forever  grieved  ? 

Heaven  did  not  need  her  voice ;  its  courts  are  full 
Of  choristers  angelic  trained  for  praise. 

No  note  is  lacking  in  the  wonderful 

According  chorus,  which,  untired,  always 


HER    VOICE.  91 

Sings,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy  !  "  round  the  throne  ; 
But  earth  seems  dumb  to  us  now  it  is  gone  ! 

God  does  not  grudge  us  anything  of  good  ! 

And  I  will  dare  to  fancy  when  she  died, 
And  on  the  sweet  lips  which  so  featly  wooed 

Music,  the  guest,  to  enter  and  abide, 
Death  laid  his  hand,  and  with  insistence  strong 
Shut  in  the  secret  of  their  power  of  song,  — 

That  the  dear  voice,  thus  sadly  dispossessed 
And  reft  of  home,  sped  forth  upon  its  road, 

And  like  a  lost  and  lonely  child,  in  quest 
Of  shelter,  sought  another  warm  abode 

In  human  shape,  —  some  gentle,  new-born  thing, 

Where  it  might  fold  its  torn  and  beaten  wing. 

And  if,  long  years  from  now,  we  catch  a  strain 
Which  has  the  old,  familiar,  rapturous  thrill, 

We  shall  smile,  saying,  "  There  it  is  again  ! 
It  is  not  dead,  it  wakes  in  music  still. 

Hark  !  how  the  lovely  accents  soar  and  float, 

A  skylark  singing  from  a  woman's  throat !  " 


92  A   FLORENTINE  JULIET. 


A   FLORENTINE   JULIET. 

HAT  is  it,  my  Renzo  ?     What  is  thy  desire  ? 

To  hear  my  story,  hear  the  whole  of  it  ? 

And  with  a  shamefaced  air  and  reddened  cheek 
That  "  others  know  it  all,  and  why  not  thou?  " 
Who  has  been  talking  to  thee  of  me,  then ; 
Setting  thee  on  to  question  and  suspect  ? 
Ah,  boy,  with  eyes  still  full  of  childish  dreams, 
And  yet  with  manhood  on  the  firm  young  lip, 
T  is  a  hard  thing  to  ask  me,  and  a  strange  ! 
A  woman  does  not  easily  lay  bare 
Her  history,  which  is  her  very  heart, 
Even  to  that  piece  of  her  she  calls  her  son  ! 
Son  he  may  be,  but  still  he  is  a  man, 
And  she,  though  mother,  is  a  woman  still ; 
And  men  and  women  are  made  different, 
And  vainly  'gainst  the  barrier  of  sex 
They  beat  and  beat,  —  all  their  lives  long  they  beat, 
And  never  pass,  never  quite  understand  ! 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  93 

Yet  must  I  do  this  hard  thing  for  thy  sake, 

Since  who  shall  do  it  for  thee,  if  not  I  ? 

Thy  father,  who  had  else  more  fitly  told, 

Is  at  the  wars,  the  weary,  wasting  wars  ;  — 

Long  years  ago  he  sailed  unto  the  wars, 

And,  dead  or  living,  comes  not  back  to  us. 

Unhappy  is  the  son  who,  woman-bred, 

Knows  not  the  firm  feel  of  a  father's  hand ; 

And  I,  widow  or  wife,  I  know  not  which, 

Wofulest  widow,  still  more  woful  wife  ! 

Must  frame  my  faltering  tongue  to  tell  the  tale, 

And  snatch  my  thoughts  back  from  their  present  pain 

To  the  old  days,  the  hard  and  cruel  days, 

Full  of  sharp  hatred  and  stern  vengeances, 

Which  yet  were  beautiful  to  him  and  me 

Who  lived  and  loved  each  other  and  were  young ; 

But  unto  thee,  born  in  a  softer  hour, 

Come  as  dim  echoes  of  some  warlike  peal. 

Thou  bearest  an  honorable  name,  my  son, 
Two  mighty  houses  meet  and  blend  in  thee ; 
For  I,  thy  mother,  of  the  warlike  line 
Of  Bardi,  lords  of  Florence  in  past  time, 
Was  daughter,  and  thy  sire  Ippolito 


94  A   FLORENTINE  JULIET. 

Sprang  from  the  Buondelmonti,  their  sworn  foes ; 

For  we  were  Guelph  and  they  were  Ghibelline, 

And  centuries  of  wrong,  and  seas  of  blood, 

And  old  traditional  hatreds  sundered  us. 

Even  in  my  babyhood  I  heard  the  name 

Of  Buondelmonti  uttered  'twixt  set  teeth 

And  coupled  with  a  curse,  and  I  would  pout, 

And  knit  my  brows,  and  clench  my  tiny  fist 

And  whimper  at  the  very  sound  of  it ; 

Whereat  my  father,  stout  Amerigo, 

Would  catch  me  up  and  toss  me  overhead, 

And  swear  I  was  best  Bardi  of  them  all ; 

And  if  his  sons  but  matched  his  only  maid 

They  'd  make  quick  work  of  the  black  Ghibellines 

And  of  the  Buondelmonti ! 

So  I  grew 

To  woman's  stature,  and  men  called  me  fair, 
And  suitors,  like  a  flight  of  bees,  began 
To  hum  and  cluster  wheresoe'er  I  moved ; 
And  then  there  came  the  day,  —  that  fateful  day, 
When  little  Gian,  my  father's  latest  born, 
Was  carried  for  chrism  to  the  baptistery ; 
And  standing,  all  unaware,  beside  the  font, 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  95 

I  looked  across  the  dim  and  crowded  church 
And  saw  a  face  —  a  dazzling,  youthful  face  ! 
A  face  that  smote  my  vision  like  a  star ; 
With  golden  locks,  and  eyes  divinely  bright 
Like  San  Michele  in  the  picture  there  — 
Fixed  upon  mine. 

Had  any  whispered  then 
It  was  Ippolito,  our  foeman's  son, 
At  whom  I  gazed,  I  should  have  turned  away, 
My  father's  daughter  sure  had  turned  away. 
But  nothing  warned  me,  nothing  hindered  him  ; 
We  looked  upon  each  other,  Fate  so  willed, 
And  with  our  eyes  our  hearts  met ! 

"  Cursed  cur," 

My  brother  muttered,  fingering  at  his  sword, 
"  I  '11  teach  you  to  ogle  us  when  this  is  done  !  " 
"Who  is  it,  then?"  I  whispered,  and  he  told; 
And  with  the  name  I  felt  my  heart  like  lead 
Turn  cold  and  cold  and  suddenly  sink  down. 

And  still  that  tender,  radiant  gaze  wooed  mine, 
And  still  I  felt  the  enchantment  burn  and  burn, 
But  would  not  turn  my  head  or  look  again ; 


96  A   FLORENTINE  JULIET. 

And  all  that  night  I  lay  and  felt  those  eyes, 
And  day  by  day  they  seemed  to  follow  me, 
Like  unknown  planets  of  some  strange  new  heaven 
Whose  depths  I  dared  not  question  or  explore ; 
And  love  and  hate  so  strove  for  mastery 
Within  my  girl's  heart,  made  their  battle-field, 
That  all  my  forces  failed  and  life  grew  faint. 

He,  for  his  part,  set  forth  with  heart  afire 

To  learn  my  name,  —  sad  knowledge,  easy  gained, 

Leaving  the  learner  stricken  with  a  chill  ! 

And  after  that,  whenever  I  might  go 

To  ball  or  feast,  I  saw  him,  only  him  ! 

And  while  the  other  cavaliers  pressed  round 

To  praise  my  face  or  dress,  or  hold  my  fan, 

Or  bid  me  to  the  dance,  he  stood  aloof 

With  passionate  eyes,  but  never  might  draw  near. 

For  still  my  brother  Piero  or  my  sire 

Were  close  behind,  with  dark  set  brows  intent 

To  watch  him  that  he  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

Only  his  eyes  met  mine,  and  in  my  cheeks 

I  felt  the  guilty  color  grow  and  grow ; 

And  once,  when  all  were  masqued,  amid  the  crowd 

A  hand  touched  mine,  and  oh.  I  knew  't  was  his ! 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  97 

At  last,  with  baffling  of  his  heart-sick  hope 

And  long  suspense  and  sorrow,  he  fell  ill ; 

And  in  a  moment  when  life's  tide  ran  low 

He  told  his  mother  all ;  she,  loving  him  well 

And  loath  to  see  him  perish  thus  forlorn, 

Became  his  ally,  spoke  him  words  of  cheer, 

And  with  my  cousin  Contessa,  her  sworn  friend, 

She  counsel  took ;  and  so,  betwixt  the  two, 

It  came  about  that  on  a  day  of  spring 

When  almond  blossoms  whitened  the  brown  boughs 

And  olives  were  in  bud  and  all  birds  sang, 

We  met,  —  a  meeting  cunningly  contrived, 

In  an  old  villa  garden  past  the  walls. 

My  mother  had  led  me  thither,  knowing  naught, 

And  I,  naught  knowing,  had  wandered  for  a  space 

Among  the  boskage  and  the  fragrant  vines, 

And,  standing  by  a  water-fount  of  stone 

Listening  the  tinkle  and  the  cool,  wet  splash 

Of  the  thin  drip,  and  thinking  still  of  him 

(For  I  went  thinking  of  him  all  the  day), 

I  heard  the  soft  throb  of  a  mandolin, 

And  next  a  voice,  divinely  sweet  it  seemed, 

A  voice  unheard  till  then,  and  yet  I  knew 

The  voice  for  his  ;  and  this  the  song  it  sang  :  — 


98  A    FLORENTINE  JULIET. 

"  Ah,  thorns  so  sharp,  so  strong  ! 
Ah,  path  so  hard,  so  long  i 
What  do  I  care  ?    Thither  I  fare  ! 
My  Rose  is  there  ! 

"  Ah,  life  so  dear,  so  brief ! 
Ah,  death,  the  end  of  grief ! 
All  I  can  bear,  all  will  I  dare  ! 
My  Rose  is  there  !  " 

The  music  ceased,  the  while  spell-bound  I  stayed ; 
Then  came  a  rustle,  —  he  was  at  my  feet ! 

Few  moments  might  we  stay,  and  few  words  speak ; 
But  love  is  swift  of  tongue  !  all  was  arranged,  — 
The  plan  of  our  escape,  the  hour,  the  place, 
And  that  Ippolito,  next  night  but  two, 
With  a  rope-ladder  hidden  'neath  his  cloak, 
Should  stand  beneath  my  window.    Once  on  ground 
A  priest  should  wait  to  bind  us  quickly  one. 
Then  a  mad  gallop,  ere  the  dawn  of  day, 
Would  set  us  safely  forth  beyond  the  rule 
Of  the  Black  Lily.     Next,  as  hand  in  hand 
We  stood,  our  lips  met  in  a  first  long  kiss, 
And  then  we  parted. 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  99 

With  his  vanishing 

The  thing  grew  like  a  dream,  and  as  in  dream 
I  seemed  to  walk  the  next  day  and  the  next ; 
For  all  my  thoughts  were  of  that  coming  night, 
And  all  my  fear  was  lest  it  should  not  come. 
And  all  the  old-time  animosities, 
And  all  the  hates  bred  in  me  from  a  child, 
And  feudal  faiths  and  loyalties  were  dead, — 
I  was  no  more  a  Bardi ;  Love  ruled  all. 

It  came,  the  night,  and  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 
I  stood  at  casement,  wrapped  in  veil,  with  mask 
And  muffling  cloak  laid  ready  close  beside  ; 
And  there  I  stood  and  watched,  and  heard  the  bells 
Strike  one,  two,  three,  and  saw  the  rose  of  dawn 
Deepen  to  day,  and  still  my  love  came  not. 

Then,  fearing  to  be  spied,  I  crept  to  bed ; 
And  lying  in  a  weary  trance,  half  sleep, 
Heard  shouts  and  cries  and  noise  of  joyful  stir 
Run  through  the  palace,  and  quick  echoing  feet. 
4  And  little  Cosmo  thundering  at  my  door; 
"  Wake,  Dianora,  here  is  glorious  news  ! 
Ippolito,  our  foeman's  only  son, 


100  A   FLORENTINE  JULIET. 

Is  caught  red-handed  on  some  midnight  raid, 
Taken  with  a  rope-ladder  'neath  his  cloak, 
Bound  for  some  theft  or  felony,  no  doubt ; 
And  as  he  offers  neither  excuse  nor  plea, 
He  is  to  suffer  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
In  spite  of  his  proud  father's  threats  and  cries. 
All  that  the  criminal  asks  by  way  of  boon 
Is  he  may  pass  our  palace  as  he  goes 
Unto  the  scaffold.     A  queer  fancy  that  ! 
But  all  the  better  sport  it  makes  for  us, 
And  we  need  neither  pity  nor  deny  ! 
So  rise,  sweet  sister,  don  your  bravest  gear, 
For  all  the  household  on  the  balcony 
Will  sit  to  jeer  the  fellow  as  he  wends, 
And  in  the  midst  of  us  one  Bardi  Rose 
Must  be  to  grace  and  enjoy  the  spectacle, 
The  best  that  ever  Florence  saw  !  " 

My  boy, 

Look  not  so  startled  !     Those  were  bitter  days, 
I  said,  and  blood  had  flowed  and  hearts  grown  hard, 
And  hatred  is  contagious  as  disease. 
Cosmo,  my  brother,  was  but  as  the  rest. 
He  died  at  nine,  ere  ever  thou  wast  born, 
And  I  have  paid  for  masses  for  his  soul,  — 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  IOI 

For  many,  many  masses  have  I  paid ; 
Heaven  will  not  be  hard  with  a  babe  like  that, 
The  Frate  tells  me  so,  and  I  am  sure. 

What  was  I  saying  ?     So  I  rose  that  day 

A  traitor  unsuspected  mid  his  foes, 

Who  were  my  friends,  hiding  'neath  feigned  smiles 

A  purpose  desperate  as  was  my  hope. 

I  rose,  and  let  them  deck  me  as  they  would, 

Put  on  my  jewels,  star  my  hair  with  pearls, 

And  all  the  while  a  voice  like  funeral  dirge 

Sang  in  my  half-crazed  ears,  or  seemed  to  sing, 

The  fragment  and  the  cadence  of  a  song. 

"  Ah,  death,  the  end  of  grief,  what  do  I  care?  " 

Then  I  stood  up  among  my  tiring-maids, 

And  saw  myself  in  the  long  Venice  glass 

A  vision  of  pale  splendor,  as  I  moved 

To  take  my  station  on  the  balcony, 

In  the  mid  place,  the  very  front  of  all, 

Set  like  a  bride  in  festival  array, 

Among  the  laughing,  chattering,  peering  throng, 

To  see  the  hated  foeman  of  our  race 

Led  past  the  palace  on  his  way  to  die  ! 

My  love,  my  husband,  my  Ippolito, 

Led  past  our  palace  on  his  way  to  die  ! 


102  A  FLORENTINE  JULIET. 

Long  time  we  waited,  till  the  fear  began 
To  bur  that  some  mischance  had  marred  the  plan. 
And  the  procession  by  another  street 
Might  pass,  and  so  we  miss  the  spectacle, 
This  was  their  fear,  and  my  fear  was  the  same  ; 
And  still  I  sat  and  smiled,  and  while  the  bells 
Tolled,  and  they  talked  and  buzzed,  I  only  prayed. 
"  How  if  he  did  not  come  ?     Saints,  let  him  come  ! 

0  pitying  Virgin,  only  grant  he  come  !  " 

They  came  at  last,  the  Bargello  and  his  troop, 
And  in  the  midst  my  love  with  hands  fast  tied, 
And  golden  locks  uncurled  and  face  all  wan, 
But  still  with  gallant  bearing,  and  his  eyes 
Fixed  upon  mine,  —  me,  for  whose  sake  he  died, 
For  whose  sweet  honor's  sake  he  silent  died. 
There  was  a  little  halt,  and  then  a  cry 
Of  fierce  joy  rang  from  out  our  balcony. 
Now  was  my  time ;  all  sudden  sprang  I  up, 
And  while  the  astonished  crowd  kept  silence  deep, 
And  they,  my  kin,  amazed,  sat  silent  too, 

1  loudly  told  our  tale,  our  woful  tale, 
And  made  avowal  that  't  was  for  my  sake 
Ippolito  his  noble  silence  kept  ! 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  103 

Then,  while  my  brother  strove  to  stop  my  mouth, 

And  fierce  hands  clutched  my  gown  and  seized  my  arms, 

I  clung  and  pleaded  :  "  Find  the  holy  Friar, 

Good  people,  only  send  to  find  the  Friar,  — 

Find  him,  for  pity's  sake  !     He  will  confirm 

All  I  have  said,  and  prove  my  truth  and  his, 

And  save  my  dear  Love,  slain  for  love  of  me." 

Then  a  great  cry  arose,  some  this  way  ran, 
Some  that,  and  suddenly  amid  the  press 
A  cowl  was  seen,  and  Fra  Domenico, 
Breathless  with  haste,  just  conscious  of  our  need, 
Ran  in  the  midst,  and  then,  I  know  not  what,  — 
For  all  was  tumult,  —  but  my  love  stood  free  ! 
Free  and  unbound  !  and  all  the  populace 
Shouted  our  twofold  names,  "  Ippolito 
And  Dianora,"  and  the  bells  broke  out, 
And  with  the  bells  the  sun  and  all  the  air 
Seemed  full  of  interlaced  and  tangled  sounds,  — 
Cries  and  glad  pealings  and  our  blended  names 
On  one  side  ;  on  the  other  stormy  words, 
Reproach,  and  curses. 

Then  the  Podesta 
And  many  great  lords  came,  and  all  passed  in, 


104  A   FLORENTINE  JULIET. 

And  up  the  stairs,  and  filled  the  palace  full ; 

And  high  and  low  joined  in  an  equal  plea 

That  the  long  feud  be  stanched,  and  as  a  pledge 

Of  lasting  peace  we  two  be  wedded  straight. 

But  still  my  father  frowned  and  closed  his  ears, 

And  still  my  brothers  fumbled  at  their  swords ; 

But  when  Count  Buondelmonti,  aged  and  gray, 

And  shattered  with  the  horror  just  escaped 

Suspense  and  heavy  sickness,  hurried  in, 

And  kissed  my  hands,  and  knelt  before  my  feet 

And  blessed  me,  the  savior  of  his  son, 

While  with  redoubled  zeal  the  Podesta 

Urged,   and   the   noble   lords,  —  Heaven   touched    their 

hearts,  — 

They  gave  consent ;  and  so  the  feud  was  healed, 
And  the  next  day  my  Love  and  I  were  wed. 

And  twenty  glad  years  came  and  fleetly  sped. 

Each  like  a  separate  rose  which  buds  and  falls 

Duly  and  fragrantly  and  is  not  missed. 

'T  was  then  he  carved  as  a  memorial 

On  the  facade  of  the  old  Sta.  Maria 

Sopr,  Arno,  "  Fuccio  mifece"  and  the  date  — 

*'  I  made  myself  a  robber  ;  "  and  he  laughed, 


A   FLORENTINE  JULIET.  105 

And  said  I  was  the  treasure  that  he  stole ; 

Ah  me  !  and  then  he  sailed  unto  the  wars, 

And  all  the  years  that  have  gone  by  since  then 

Are  as  sad  night  shades  steeped  in  deadly  dews. 

Death  hath  been  busy  with  us,  as  thou  knowest ; 

Thou  art  the  youngest  of  my  six  fair  sons, 

Thou  art  the  only  one  to  close  my  eyes 

When  time  shall  come  and  puzzles  be  explained. 

How  did  the  old  song  run?     "  My  Rose  is  there." 

If  I  shall  wake  in  Paradise  one  day 

And  find  him  safe,  and  safely  still  my  own, 

Not  won  away  from  me  by  some  new  face, 

And  see  his  eyes  with  the  old  steadfast  look, 

Why,  that  will  be  enough,  that  will  be  heaven  ! 

But  if,  instead,  I  find  another  there 

Close  to  his  side  where  once  I  used  to  rest, 

No  matter  who  it  be,  angel  or  saint, 

I  must  cry  "  Shame  !  "  whate'er  the  penalty. 

God  will  not  need  to  send  me  down  to  fires, 

But  only  bid  me  stay  in  heaven  and  look  ! 


IO6  HERE  AND   THERE. 


HERE  AND  THERE. 

sit  beside  the  lower  feast  to-day ; 

She  at  the  higher. 
Our  voices  falter  as  we  bend  to  pray ; 

In  the  great  choir 
Of  happy  saints  she  sings,  and  does  not  tire. 

We  break  the  bread  of  patience,  and  the  wine 

Of  tears  we  share  ; 
She  tastes  the  vintage  of  that  glorious  vine 

Whose  branches  fair 
Set  for  the  healing  of  all  nations  are. 

I  wonder  is  she  sorry  for  our  pain, 

Or  if,  grown  wise, 
She  wondering  smiles,  and  counts  them  idle,  vain, 

These  heavy  sighs, 
These  longings  for  her  face  and  happy  eyes. 


HERE  AND   THERE.  IO/ 

Smile  on,  then,  darling  !     As  God  wills,  is  best. 

We  loose  our  hold, 
Content  to  leave  thee  to  the  deeper  rest, 

The  safer  fold, 
To  joy's  immortal  youth  while  we  grow  old ; 

Content  the  cold  and  wintry  day  to  bear, 

The  icy  wave, 
And  know  thee  in  immortal  summer  there, 

Beyond  the  grave ; 
Content  to  give  thee  to  the  Love  that  gave. 


108  FORWARD. 


FORWARD. 

ET  me  stand  still  upon  the  height  of  life ; 

Much  has  been  won,  though  much  there  is  to 

win. 
I  am  a  little  weary  of  the  strife  ; 

Let  me  stand  still  awhile,  nor  count  it  sin 
To  cool  my  hot  brow,  ease  the  travel  pain, 
And  then  address  me  to  the  road  again. 

Long  was  the  way,  and  steep  and  hard  the  climb ; 

Sore  are  my  limbs,  and  fain  I  am  to  rest. 
Behind  me  lie  long  sandy  tracks  of  time  ; 

Before  me  rises  the  steep  mountain  crest. 
Let  me  stand  still ;  the  journey  is  half  done, 
And  when  less  weary  I  will  travel  on. 

There  is  no  standing  still !     Even  as  I  pause, 
The  steep  path  shifts  and  I  slip  back  apace. 


FORWARD.  109 

Movement  was  safety ;  by  the  journey-laws 
No  help  is  given,  no  safe  abiding-place, 
No  idling  in  the  pathway  hard  and  slow  : 
I  must  go  forward,  or  must  backward  go  ! 

I  will  go  up  then,  though  the  limbs  may  tire, 
And  though  the  path  be  doubtful  and  unseen ; 

Better  with  the  last  effort  to  expire 

Than  lose  the  toil  and  struggle  that  have  been, 

And  have  the  morning  strength,  the  upward  strain, 

The  distance  conquered,  in  the  end  made  vain. 

Ah,  blessed  law  !  for  rest  is  tempting  sweet, 
And  we  would  all  lie  down  if  so  we  might ; 

And  few  would  struggle  on  with  bleeding  feet, 
And  few  would  ever  gain  the  higher  height, 

Except  for  the  stern  law  which  bids  us  know 

We  must  go  forward  or  must  backward  go. 


1 10  IN  HER   GARDEN. 


IN    HER   GARDEN. 

TILL  swings  the  scarlet  pentstemon 
Like  threaded  rubies  on  its  stem, 

In  the  hid  spot  she  loved  so  well ; 
Still  bloom  wild  roses  brave  and  fair, 
And  like  a  bubble  borne  in  air 
Floats  the  shy  Mariposa's  bell. 

Like  torches  lit  for  carnival, 
The  fiery  lilies,  straight  and  tall, 

Burn  where  the  deepest  shadow  is ; 
Still  dance  the  columbines  cliff-hung, 
And  like  a  broidered  veil  outflung 

The  mazy-blossomed  clematis. 

Her  garden  !     All  is  silent  now, 

Save  bell-note  from  some  wandering  cow, 

Or  rippling  lark-song  far  away, 
Or  whisper  from  the  wind-stirred  leaves, 


IN  HER   GARDEN.  Ill 

Or  mourning  dove  which  grieves  and  grieves, 
And  "  Lost  !  lost !  lost !  "  still  seems  to  say. 

Where  is  the  genius  of  the  place,  — 
The  happy  voice,  the  happy  face, 

The  feet  whose  light,  unerring  tread 
Needed  no  guide  in  wildwood  ways, 
But  trod  the  rough  and  tangled  maze 

By  natural  instinct  taught  and  led? 

Upon  the  wind-blown  mountain-spur 
Chosen  and  loved  as  best  by  her, 

Watched  over  by  near  sun  and  star, 
Encompassed  by  wide  skies,  she  sleeps, 
And  not  one  jarring  murmur  creeps 

Up  from  the  plain  her  rest  to  mar. 

Sleep  on,  dear  heart  !  we  would  not  break 
Thy  slumber  for  our  sorrow's  sake  : 

The  cup  of  life,  with  all  its  zest, 
Thy  ardent  nature  quaffed  at  full ; 
Now,  in  the  twilight  long  and  cool, 

Take  thou  God's  final  gift  of  rest. 


112  IN  HER   GARDEN. 

And  still  below  the  grape-vine  swings ; 
The  Mariposa's  fragile  wings 

Flutter,  red  lilies  light  their  flame, 
Larks  float,  the  dove  still  plains  and  grieves ; 
But  while  one  heart  that  loved  thee  lives, 

Still  shall  thy  garden  bear  thy  name. 


ON  EASTER  DAY.  113 


ON    EASTER   DAY. 


jjE  light  the  Easter  fire,  and  the  Easter  lamps  we 

trim, 
And  lilies  rear  their  chaliced  cups  in  churches 

rich  and  dim, 
And  chapel  low  and  Minster  high  the  same  triumphant 

strains 
In  city  and  in  village  raise,  and  on  the  lonely  plains. 

"  Life  "  is  the  strain,  and  "  endless  life  "  the  chiming  bells 

repeat,  — 

A  word  of  victory  over  death,  a  word  of  promise  sweet ; 
And  as  the  great  good  clasps  the  less,  the  sun  a  myriad 

rays, 
So  do  a  hundred  thoughts  of  joy  cling  round  our  Easter 

days. 

And  one,  which  seems  at  times  the  best  and  dearest  of 

them  all, 
Is  this  :  that  all  the  many  dead  in  ages  past  recall, 


1 14  ON  EASTER  DA  Y. 

With  the  friends  who  died  so  long  ago  that  memory  seeks 

in  vain 
To  call  the  vanished  faces  back,  and  make  them  live  again  • 

And  those  so  lately  gone  from  us  that  still  they  seem  to  be 
Beside  our  path,  beside  our  board,  in  viewless  company,  — 
A  light  for  all  our  weary  hours,  a  glory  by  the  way,  — 
All,  all  the  dead,  the  near,  the  far,  take  part  in  Easter  day  ! 

They  share  the  life  we  hope  to  share,  as  once  they  shared 

in  this ; 

They  hold  in  fast  possession  our  heritage  of  bliss. 
Theirs  is  the  sure,  near  Presence  toward  which  we  reach 

and  strain ; 
On  Easter  day,  on  Easter  day,  we  all  are  one  again. 

Oh,  fairest  of  the  fair,  high  thoughts  that  light  the  Easter 
dawn  ! 

Oh,  sweet  and  true  companionship  which  cannot  be  with 
drawn  ! 

"  The  Lord  is  risen ! "  sealed  lips  repeat  out  of  the 
shadows  dim ; 

"The  Lord  is  risen,"  we  answer  back,  "and  all  shall  rise 
in  him  ! " 


"DER  ABEND  1ST  DER  BESTS."         11$ 


"DER   ABEND    1ST   DER   BESTE." 

HE  morning  hours  are  joyful  fair, 
With  call  of  bird  and  scent  of  dew  ; 
And  blent  with  shining  gold  and  blue 
And  glad  the  summer  noontides  are  ; 
The  slow  sun  lingering  seeks  the  west, 
As  loath  to  leave  and  grieve  so  soon 
The  long  and  fragrant  afternoon  ; 
But  still  the  evening  is  the  best. 

Day  may  be  full  as  day  may  be,  — 

Her  hands  all  heaped  with  gifts,  her  eyes 
Alight  with  joyful  prophecies  ; 

But  still  we  turn  where  wistfully 

The  veiled  evening,  dimly  fair, 

Stands  in  the  shadow  without  speech, 
And  holds  her  one  gift  out  to  each,  — 

Her  gift  of  rest,  for  all  to  share. 


Il6          "DER  ABEND  1ST  DER  BESTED 

Ah  !  sweetly  falls  the  sunset  glow 
On  silver  hairs,  all  peaceful  bent 
To  catch  the  last  rays,  and  content 

To  watch  the  twilight  softly  grow ; 

Content  to  face  the  night  and  keep 
The  peaceful  vigil  of  the  eve, 
And  like  a  little  child  to  breathe 

A  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

Ah,  close  of  life  !     Ah,  close  of  day  ! 

Which  thinks  of  morn  without  regret ; 

Which  thinks  of  busy  noon,  and  yet 
Grieves  not  to  put  its  toils  away ; 
Which,  calmed  with  thoughts  of  coming  rest, 

Watches  the  sweet,  still  evening  fade, 

Counting  its  hours  all  unafraid,  — 
Surely  the  evening  is  the  best. 


OPTIMISM. 


OPTIMISM. 

OU  tell  me,  with  a  little  scorn, 

A  pitying  blame  in  look  and  touch, 
Of  conscious  worldly- wisdom  born, 
That  I  am  hopeful  over  much ; 


That  all  my  swans  are  veriest  geese, 

My  cheerfulness  an  easy  vent 
For  animal  spirits,  and  my  peace 

A  cheap,  contemptible  content ; 

That  it  is  shallow  to  be  glad, 
Idle  to  hope  and  vain  to  trust, 

Because  all  good  is  mixed  with  bad, 
And  men  are  liars,  and  flesh  is  dust ; 

That  wisdom  grimly  prophesies, 

And  sits  distrustful  and  alert, 
Peering  with  far,  experienced  eyes 

For  what  may  cheat  and  what  may  hurt. 


Il8  OPTIMISM. 

I  do  not  know  if  you  are  right ; 

But  these  I  hold  as  certainties  : 
That  God  made  day  as  well  as  night, 

And  joy  as  well  as  pain  is  his ; 

That  if  philosophy  means  doubt, 
And  wisdom  boding  discontents, 

Men  may  do  better  far  without 
These  all-divine  accomplishments  ! 

That  souls  are  stronger  to  endure 
The  heavy  woes  which  all  may  taste, 

If,  holding  to  God's  promise  sure, 
They  wait  his  time,  not  making  haste 

To  grieve,  anticipating  ill ; 

How  shall  they  know  what  sweet,  hid  thing 
He  keeps  in  store  for  souls  who  still 

Follow  his  beck  unquestioning? 

Joy  is  the  lesson  set  for  some, 
For  others  pain  best  teacher  is  ; 

We  know  not  which  for  us  shall  come, 
But  both  are  Heaven's  high  ministries. 


OPTIMISM.  119 

The  swollen  torrent  rages  high  ; 

The  path  ahead  is  steep  and  wet. 
What  then  ?     We  still  are  safe  and  dry ; 

We  need  not  cross  that  torrent  yet ! 

Perhaps  the  waters  may  subside  ; 

There  may  be  paths  which  skirt  the  flood. 
God  holds  our  hand.     With  him  for  guide 

We  need  not  fear ;  for  he  is  good. 

Meanwhile  there  is  the  sun,  the  sky, 
And  life  the  joy,  and  love  the  zest ; 

And,  spite  of  scorn  and  pity,  I 

Will  taste  to-day,  and  trust  the  rest. 


120  DRINKING  OF  THE  BROOK. 


"HE   SHALL  DRINK   OF  THE   BROOK   BY 
THE   WAY." 

HE  way  is  hot,  the  way  is  long, 
'T  is  weary  hours  to  even-song, 

And  we  must  travel  though  we  tire ; 
But  all  the  time  beside  the  road 
Trickle  the  small,  clear  rills  of  God, 
At  hand  for  our  desire. 

Quick  mercies,  small  amenities, 
Brief  moments  of  repose  and  ease,  — 

We  stoop,  and  drink,  and  so  fare  on, 
Unpausing,  but  re-nerved  in  strength 
From  hour  to  hour,  until  at  length 

Night  falleth,  and  the  day  is  done. 

The  birds  sip  of  the  wayside  rill, 
And  raise  their  heads  in  praises,  still 
Upborne  upon  their  flashing  wings ; 


DRINKING   OF   THE  BROOK.  121 

So  drinking  thus  along  the  way, 
Our  little  meed  of  thanks  we  pay 
To  Him  who  fills  the  water-springs, 

And  deals  with  equal  tenderness 
The  larger  mercies  and  the  less  : 

"  O  Lord,  of  good  the  fountain  free, 
Close  by  our  hard  day's  journeying 
Be  thou  the  all-sufficing  spring, 

And  hourly  let  us  drink  of  thee." 


THREE   PICTURES. 


THREE   PICTURES. 

I. 

LOVE   AND   DEATH. 

PON  the  threshold  of  his  guarded  home 

Stands  Love  the  child. 
A  thousand  roses  bloom  above  his  head 
With  rain  of  dewy  petals  white  and  red ; 
All  fair  and  joyous  things  themselves  array 
To  deck  and  soften  for  dear  Love  the  way. 
He  stands  where  often  he  has  stood  before  ; 
But  now  his  face  is  pale,  his  eyes  all  wild, 
A  strange  and  boding  tread  has  caught  his  ear, 
An  awful,  hovering  shape  sweeps  into  view, 
And  all  his  soul  is  rent  with  wrath  and  fear  — 
What  can  Love  do  ? 

Poor  Love  !  brave  Love  !  he  nerves  his  feeble  arm, 

He  grasps  his  bow ; 

The  dreadful  guest  has  seized  the  rainbow  wings. 
In  vain  Love  strives  with  tears  and  shudderings, 


THREE  PICTURES.  123 

In  vain  he  lifts  appealing  eyes  of  prayer ; 
There  is  no  pity  or  relenting  there. 
No  power  has  Love  to  deprecate  or  charm, 
Vain  are  his  puny  wiles  against  this  foe  ; 
The  roses  wither  in  the  icy  breath 
Which  eddies  the  defenceless  portals  through, 
And,  brushing  Love  aside,  in  passes  Death  — 
What  can  Love  do  ? 


II. 

LOVE   AND    LIFE. 

THE  way  is  steep,  and  hard  to  tread,  and  drear  ; 
Piercing  and  bleak  the  icy  atmosphere. 
My  feet  are  bruised  and  bleeding,  and  my  eyes 
Can  only  with  dim  questionings  seek  the  skies. 
How  could  I  walk  a  step  without  thine  aid  ? 
How  face  the  awful  silence  unafraid? 
How  bear  the  star-rays  and  the  moon-glance  cold  ? 
Loose  not  thine  hold  ! 

Earth  and  its  kindly  ways  seem  very  far, 
And  yet  the  shining  skies  no  nearer  are  ; 
Except  for  thee,  dear  Love,  I  could  not  go 
Over  the  hard  rocks,  the  untrodden  snow, 


124  THREE  PICTURES. 

But  had  sat  down  content  with  lower  things, 
With  scanty  crumbs  and  waning  water- springs,  - 
A  winged  thing  whose  wings  might  not  unfold  : 
Loose  not  thine  hold  ! 

Loose  not  thine  hold  !  let  me  feel  all  the  while 
The  quickening  impulse  of  thy  tender  smile 
Luring  me  on,  and  catch,  as  if  in  trance, 
The  lovely  reverence  of  thy  downward  glance, 
The  pity  and  the  splendor  of  thy  face, 
The  recognition  like  a  soft  embrace  : 
Until  my  feet  shall  tread  the  streets  of  gold, 
Loose  not  thy  hold  ! 

III. 

PAOLO   E   FRANCESCA. 

THE  mighty  blast  which  sweeps  and  girdles  hell 
Drives  us  before  it,  whither  none  may  tell. 
No  pause,  no  goal,  no  time  of  respite,  —  well, 
We  are  together  ! 

Circling  forever  in  a  dark  abyss, 
Linked  by  a  fate  as  wild  as  passionless, 
One  only  thing  is  left  us,  —  it  is  this  : 
We  are  together  ! 


THE    TWO  SHORES. 


125 


THE  TWO  SHORES. 


PON  the  river's  brink  I  stand 
Beside  the  rushing  water's  flow, 
And  look  from  off  the  shore  I  know, 
The  safe  and  dear  familiar  land, 
Unto  another  shore,  which  lies 
Mist-veiled  beneath  the  crimsoning  skies. 
This  is  a  shore,  and  that  a  shore. 
Does  the  earth  cease,  to  rise  once  more 

Beyond  the  river's  span? 
Ah  no  !  the  shores  are  clasped  in  one ; 
The  same  firm  earth  goes  on,  goes  on, 
Though  hidden  for  a  little  space 
From  eye  or  tread  of  man. 

Upon  another  shore  we  stand 
Beside  a  darker  water's  flow, 
And  catch  beyond  the  earth  we  know 


126  THE   TWO   SHORES. 

Faint  glimpses  of  another  land 
Dreaming  in  sunshine,  half  descried 
Beyond  the  rushing  river-tide. 
It  is  life  here,  and  life  is  there  : 
We  look  from  fair  things  to  most  fair, 

The  river  rolls  between  ; 
But  held  and  bound  and  clasped  in  one, 
Immortal  life  goes  on,  goes  on, 
Though  only  from  the  farther  strand 

The  union  can  be  seen. 


ARISE,  SHINE  f  127 


"ARISE,  SHINE,  FOR  THY  LIGHT  HAS  COME." 

ONG  time  in  sloth,  long  time  in  sin, 
Contented  with  thy  dark  estate 

Hast  thou  abode,  O  soul  of  mine ; 
Now  dawns  the  morning,  fair  though  late, 
Her  sunny  tides  are  sweeping  in. 

Thy  light  has  come  ;  arise  and  shine  ! 

The  sheathed  bud  which  all  night  long 
Has  folded  close  its  purple  up 

Upon  the  morning-glory  vine  ; 
At  the  first  rose-flush,  the  first  song, 
Unrolls  its  petals,  rears  its  cup, 

And,  light  being  come,  makes  haste  to  shine. 

It  cannot  clasp  the  whole  bright  aay, 
Nor  the  wide-brimming  sea  of  dew 
Within  its  curve  exact  and  fine. 


128  ARISE,   SHINE! 

Of  countless  beams  a  single  ray, 
One  little  freshening  sip  or  two, 
It  takes,  and  so  is  glad  to  shine. 

Make  ready  likewise,  O  my  soul ! 

God's  blessed  day  has  dawned  ;  partake  ! 

Anoint  thy  head  with  oil  and  wine  ; 
From  the  great  sum,  the  mighty  whole, 
Thy  little  crumb  and  portion  break, 
And,  giving  thanks,  arise  and  shine  ! 


A    WITHERED    VIOLET.  129 


A  WITHERED   VIOLET. 

PLUCKED  a  purple  violet, 
Its  petals  were  all  dewy  wet, 
I  held  it  tightly  for  an  hour, 

And  then  I  dropped  the  faded  flower; 

Dropped  it  and  lost  unconsciously, 

Scarce  thinking  of  the  how  or  why. 

T  was  hours  since,  but  my  fingers  yet 

Are  scented  with  the  violet ; 

The  fragrant  spell,  invisible, 

Has  caught  and  holds  me  in  its  sway. 

I  would  not  flee  if  flight  might  be  ; 

The  violet  still  rules  my  day. 

I  plucked  a  flower  when  life  was  young, 
I  chose  it  all  the  flowers  among. 
It  was  so  fresh,  it  was  so  fair, 
Heaven's  very  dew  seemed  cradled  there ; 


130  A    WITHERED    VIOLET. 

A  little  while  it  smiled  in  morn, 
And  then  it  withered  and  was  gone. 
'T  is  long  years  since,  but  every  hour 
I  taste  the  perfume  of  that  flower. 
Still  it  endures,  and  all  day  pours 
A  balm  of  fragrance  on  the  way. 
I  catch  its  breath  high  over  death ; 
A  memory  still  rules  my  day. 


DARKENED. 


DARKENED. 

IGH  in  the  windy  lighthouse  tower 

The  lamps  are  burning  free, 
Each  sending  with  good-will  and  power 
Its  message  o'er  the  sea, 
Where  ships  are  sailing  out  of  sight, 
Hidden  in  storm  and  cloud  and  night. 

On  the  white  waves  that  seethe  and  dash 

A  ruddy  gleam  is  shed  ; 
Above,  the  lighted  windows  flash 

Alternate  gold  and  red, 
Save  where  one  sad  and  blinded  glass 
Forbids  the  happy  light  to  pass. 

The  hungry  sea  entreats  the  light, 

The  struggling  light  is  fain, 
But  obdurate  and  blank  as  night 

Rises  the  darkened  pane, 
Casting  a  shadow  long  and  black 
Along  the  weltering  ocean  track.       » 


132  DARKENED. 

Ah,  who  shall  say  what  drowning  eyes 

Yearn  for  that  absent  ray  ; 
What  unseen  fleets  and  argosies, 

Ploughing  a  doubtful  way, 
Seek  through  the  night,  and  grope  and  strain 
For  guidance  from  that  darkened  pane  ? 

Ah,  Light  Divine,  so  full,  so  free  ! 

Ah,  world  that  lies  in  night ! 
Ah,  guiding  radiance  !  shine  through  me 

Brightly  and  still  more  bright, 
Nor  ever  be  thy  rays  in  vain 
Because  I  am  a  "  darkened  pane." 


THE  KEYS  OF  GRANADA.  133 


THE   KEYS  OF  GRANADA. 

IS  centuries  since  they  were  torn  away, 
Those    sad-faced    Moors    from  their  beloved 

Spain ; 
In  long  procession  to  the  wind-swept  bay, 

With  sobs  and  muttered  curses,  fierce  with  pain, 
They  took  their  woful  road  and  never  came  again. 

Behind  them  lay  the  homes  of  their  delight, 

The  marble  courtyards  and  cool  palaces, 
Where  fountains  flashed  and  shimmered  day  and  night 

'Neath  dusk  and  silver  blooms  of  blossoming  trees. 

They  closed  the  echoing  doors,  and  bore  away  the  keys. 

Palace  and  pleasure-garden  are  forgot ; 
The  marble  walls  have  crumbled  long  ago  ; 

Their  site,  their  ownership,  remembered  not, 
And  helpless  wrath  alike  and  hopeless  woe 
Are  cooled  and  comforted  by  Time's  all-healing  flow. 


*34  THE  KEYS  OF  GRANADA. 

But  still  the  children  of  those  exiled  Moors, 

A  sad  transplanted  stem  on  alien  shore, 
Keep  as  their  trust  —  and  will  while  time  endures  — 

The  rusty  keys  which  their  forefathers  bore  ; 

The  keys  of  those  shut  doors  which  ne'er  shall  open 
more. 

The  doors  are  dust,  but  yet  the  hope  lives  on ; 
The  walls  are  dust,  but  memories  cannot  die ; 

.And  still  each  sad-faced  father  tells  his  son 
Of  the  lost  homes,  the  blue  Granadian  sky, 
The  glory  and  the  wrong  of  those  old  days  gone  by. 

Ah,  keys  invisible  of  happy  doors 

Which  long  ago  our  own  hands  fastened  tight ! 
We  treasure  them  as  do  those  hapless  Moors, 

Though  dust  the  palaces  of  our  delight, 

Vacant  and  bodiless  and  vanished  quite. 

Keys  of  our  dear,  dead  hopes,  we  prize  them  still, 
Wet  them  with  tears,  embalm  with  useless  sighs  ; 

And  at  their  sight  and  touch  our  pulses  still 
Waken  and  throb,  and  under  alien  skies 
We  taste  the  airs  of  home  and  gaze  in  long-closed  eyes> 


BEREAVED.  135 


BEREAVED. 

HEN  Lazarus  from  his  three  days'  tomb 
Fronted  with  dazzled  eyes  the  day, 
all  the  amazed  crowd  made  room, 


As,  wrapped  in  shroud,  he  went  his  way, 
His  sisters  daring  scarce  to  touch 
His  hand,  their  wonderment  was  such ; 

When  friends  and  kindred  met  at  meat, 
And  in  the  midst  the  man  just  dead 

Sat  in  his  old-time  wonted  seat, 

And  poured  the  wine,  and  shared  the  bread 

With  the  old  gesture  that  they  knew,  — 

Were  they  all  glad,  those  sisters  two  ? 

Did  they  not  guess  a  hidden  pain 

In  the  veiled  eyes  which  shunned  their  gaze  ; 
A  dim  reproach,  a  pale  disdain 

For  human  joys  and  human  ways  ; 
A  loneliness  too  deep  for  speech, 
Which  all  their  love  might  never  reach  ? 


136  BEREAVED. 

And  as  the  slowly  ebbing  days 

Went  by,  and  Lazarus  went  and  came 

Still  with  the  same  estranged  gaze, 
His  loneliness  and  loss  the  same, 

Did  they  not  whisper  as  they  grieved, 

"  We  are  consoled  —  and  he  bereaved  "  ? 

Oh,  weeper  by  a  new-heaped  mound, 
Who  vexes  Heaven  with  outcries  vain, 

That,  if  but  for  one  short  hour's  round, 
Thy  heart's  desire  might  come  again,  — 

The  buried  form,  the  vanished  face, 

The  silent  voice,  the  dear  embrace,  — 

Think  if  he  came,  as  Lazarus  did, 
But  came  reluctant,  with  surprise, 

And  sat  familiar  things  amid 
With  a  new  distance  in  his  eyes, 

A  distance  death  had  failed  to  set,  — 

If  hearts  met  not  when  bodies  met ! 

If  when  you  smiled  you  heard  him  sigh, 
And  when  you  spoke  he  only  heard 

As  men  absorbed  hear  absently 
The  idle  chirping  of  a  bird, 


BEREA  VED.  1 37 

As,  rapt  in  thoughts  surpassing  speech, 
His  mind  moved  on  beyond  your  reach ; 

And  still  your  joy  was  made  his  pain, 

And  still  the  distance  wider  grew, 
His  daily  loss  your  daily  gain, 

Himself  become  more  strange  to  you 
Than  when  your  following  soul  sought  his 
In  the  vast  secret  distances  ;  — 

If,  death  once  tasted,  life  seemed  vain 

To  please  or  tempt  or  satisfy, 
And  all  his  longing  was  again 

To  be  released  and  free  to  die, 
To  get  back  to  scarce-tasted  bliss,  — 
What  grief  could  be  so  sharp  as  this  ? 


138      CAN  THEY  BEAR  IT  IN  HEAVEN? 


HOW  CAN   THEY  BEAR  IT  UP   IN 
HEAVEN?" 

OW  can  they  bear  it  up  in  heaven, 

They  who  so  loved,  and  love  us  yet, 
If  they  can  see  us  still,  and  know 
The  heavy  hours  that  come  and  go, 

The  fears  that  sting,  the  cares  that  fret, 
The  hopes  belied,  the  helps  ungiven  ? 

Can  they  sit  watching  us  all  day, 

Measure  our  tears,  and  count  our  sighs, 

And  mark  each  throb  and  stab  of  pain, 

The  ungranted  wish,  the  longing  vain, 
And  still  smile  on  with  happy  eyes, 

Content  on  golden  harps  to  play  ? 

Ah  no  !  we  will  not  do  them  wrong  ! 

When  mothers  hear  their  babies  cry 
For  broken  toy  or  trivial  woe, 
They  smile,  for  all  their  love,  —  they  know 

Laughter  shall  follow  presently, 
And  sighing  turn  to  merry  song. 


CAN  THEY  BEAR  IT  IN  HEAVEN?      139 

They  are  not  cruel,  that  they  smile ; 

Their  eyes,  grown  old,  can  farther  see, 
Weighing  the  large  thing  and  the  less 
With  wise,  experienced  tenderness,  — 

The  moment's  grief  with  joy  to  be 
In  such  a  little,  little  while. 

Just  so  the  angels,  starry-eyed, 

With  vision  cleared  and  made  all-wise, 

Look  past  the  storm-rack  and  the  rain 

And  shifting  mists  of  mortal  pain 
To  where  the  steadfast  sunshine  lies, 

And  everlasting  summer-tide. 

They  see,  beyond  the  pang,  the  strife, 
(To  us  how  long,  to  them  how  brief !) 

The  compensation  and  the  balm, 

The  victor's  wreath,  the  conqueror's  palm  — 
They  see  the  healing  laid  to  grief, 

They  see  unfold  the  perfect  life. 

For  all  our  blind,  impatient  pain, 

Our  desolate  and  sore  estate, 
They  see  the  door  that  open  is 
Of  Heaven's  abundant  treasuries, 


140      CAN  THEY  BEAR  IT  IN  HEAVEN? 

The  comforts  and  the  cures  that  wait 
The  bow  of  promise  in  the  rain. 

And  even  as  they  watch,  they  smile, 
With  eyes  of  love,  as  mothers  may, 

Nor  grieve  too  much  although  we  cry, 

Because  joy  cometh  presently, 
And  sunshine,  and  the  fair  new  day, 

When  we  have  wept  a  little  while. 


WAVE  AFTER    WAVE.  141 


WAVE  AFTER  WAVE. 

UT  of  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
From  coasts  where  dim,  rich  treasures  be, 
By  vast  and  urging  forces  blent, 


Untired,  untiring,  and  unspent, 
The  glad  waves  speed  them  one  by  one ; 
And,  goal  attained  and  errand  done, 
They  lap  the  sands  and  softly  lave,  — 
Wave  after  wave,  wave  after  wave. 

As  stirred  by  longing  for  repose 
Higher  and  higher  each  wave  goes, 
Striving  to  clasp  with  foam- white  hands 
The  yielding  and  eluding  sands  ; 
And  still  the  sea,  relentless,  grim, 
Calls  his  wild  truants  back  to  him,  — 
Recalls  the  liberty  he  gave 
Wave  after  wave,  wave  after  wave. 

All  sad  at  heart  and  desolate 

They  heed  the  call,  they  bow  to  fale  ; 


142  WAVE  AFTER    WAVE. 

And  outward  swept,  a  baffled  train, 
Each  feels  his  effort  was  in  vain. 
But  fed  by  impulse  lent  by  each 
The  gradual  tide  upon  the  beach 
Rises  to  full,  and  thunders  brave, 
Wave  after  wave,  wave  after  wave. 

Ah,  tired,  discouraged  heart  and  head, 
Look  up,  and  be  thou  comforted  ! 
Thy  puny  effort  may  seem  vain, 
Wasted  thy  toil  and  naught  thy  pain, 
Thy  brief  sun  quench  itself  in  shade, 
Thy  worthiest  strength  be  weakness  made, 
Caught  up  in  one  great  whelming  grave, 
Wave  after  wave,  wave  after  wave. 

Yet  still,  though  baffled  and  denied, 
Thy  spended  strength  has  swelled  the  tide. 
A  feather's  weight  where  oceans  roll  — 
One  atom  in  a  mighty  whole  — 
God's  hand  uncounted  agencies 
Marshals  and  notes  and  counts  as  his : 
His  sands  to  bind,  his  threads  to  save, 
His  tides  to  build,  wave  after  wave. 


THE    WORD    WITH  POWER.  143 


THE  WORD   WITH   POWER. 

OW  shall  the  Word  be  preached  with  power? 
Not  with  elaborate  care  and  toil, 
With  wastings  of  the  midnight  oil, 

With  graceful  gesture  studied  well, 

And  full  intoned  syllable  ; 

With  trope  and  simile  lending  force 

To  subdivisions  of  discourse, 

Or  labored  feeling  framed  to  please  — 

The  word  of  power  is  not  in  these. 

How  shall  the  Word  be  preached  with  power? 
Not  by  a  separate  holiness 
Which  stands  aloof  to  warn  and  bless, 
Speaking  as  from  a  higher  plane 
Which  common  men  may  not  attain ; 
Which  treats  of  sin  and  want  and  strife 
As  things  outside  the  priestly  life, 
And  only  draws  anigh  to  chide, 
Holding  a  saintly  robe  aside. 


144  THE    WORD    WITH  POWER. 

How  shall  the  Word  be  preached  with  power? 
Ah,  needless  to  debate  and  plan  ! 
Heart  answereth  unto  heart  in  man ; 
Out  of  the  very  life  of  each 
Must  come  the  power  to  heal  or  teach. 
The  life  all  eloquent  may  grieve, 
The  brain  may  subtly  work  and  weave, 
But  if  the  heart  take  not  its  share, 
The  word  of  power  is  wanting  there. 

How  shall  the  Word  be  preached  with  power  ? 
Go,  preacher,  search  thy  soul,  and  mark 
Each  want,  each  weakness,  every  dark 
And  painful  dint  where  life  and  sin 
Have  beaten  their  hard  impress  in  : 
Apply  the  balm,  and  test  the  cure. 
And  heal  thyself,  and  be  thou  sure 
That  which  helps  thee  has  power  again 
To  help  the  souls  of  other  men. 

How  shall  the  Word  be  preached  with  power? 
Go  ask  the  suffering  and  the  poor, 
Go  ask  the  beggar  at  thy  door, 


THE    WORD    WITH  POWER.  145 

Go  to  the  sacred  page  and  read 

What  served  the  old-time  want  and  need : 

The  clasping  hand,  the  kindling  eye, 

Virtue  given  out  unconsciously, 

The  self  made  selfless  hour  by  hour,  — 

In  these  is  preached  the  Word  with  power  ! 


146  TO  FELICIA   SINGING. 


TO    FELICIA   SINGING. 

HE  sat  where  sunset  shadows  fell, 
And  sunset  rays,  a  miracle 

Of  palest  blue  and  rose  and  amber, 
Touched  her  and  folded  in  their  spell. 

Her  golden  head  against  the  sky 
Was  traced  and  outlined  tenderly, 

And,  lily-soft  in  the  soft  late  sunshine, 
Her  fair  face  blossomed  to  my  eye. 

She  sang  of  k>ve  with  tuneful  breath, 
Of  sorrow,  sweet  as  aught  love  saith  ; 

Of  noble  pain,  immortal  longing, 
And  hope  which  stronger  is  than  death. 

And  every  word  and  every  tone 
Seemed  born  of  something  all  my  own. 

'T  was  I  »vho  sang,  't  was  I  who  suffered ; 
Mine  was  the  joyance,  mine  the  moan. 


TO  FELICIA    SINGING,  147 

Each  lovely,  vibrant,  rapturous  strain 
Fulfilled  my  passion  and  my  pain. 

I  was  the  instrument  she  played  on ; 
I  was  her  prelude  and  refrain. 

And  as  dim  echoes  float  and  play 
Through  forests  at  the  close  of  day, 

Farther  and  farther,  breathed  mysterious 
From  glades  and  copses  far  away, 

So  echoed  through  my  heart  her  song, 
Deeper  and  deeper  borne  along, 

Waking  to  life  half-unsuspected 
Grievings  and  hopes  and  yearnings  strong. 

Ah  !  life  and  heart  may  weary  be 
And  youth  may  fail,  and  love  may  flee ; 
But  when  I  hear  her,  see  her  singing, 
The  world  grows  beautiful  to  me. 


148  EUR  YD  ICE. 


EURYDICE. 

IS  prayer  availed  !     Touched  by  the  tuneful  pie 
The  Lord  of  Death  relaxed  his  iron  hold, 
Arid  out  of  the  swart  shadows,  deep  and  cold, 
Stole  the  lost  wife,  the  fair  Eurydice. 
He  felt  her  soft  arms  in  the  old  embrace, 
He  guessed  the  smile  upon  her  unseen  face, 
And  joyful  turned  him  from  the  dreadful  place. 

A  little  patience,  and  all  had  been  well ; 
A  little  faith,  and  bale  had  changed  to  bliss : 
Was  it  too  much  that  he  should  ask  for  this, 
Whose  love  had  dared  the  steep  descent  of  hell? 
Had  faced  the  Furies  and  the  tongues  of  fire, 
The  reek  of  torment,  rising  high  and  higher, 
Proserpina's  sad  woe  and  Pluto's  ire  ? 

It  seemed  a  little  thing  to  hope  and  ask 

That  the  glad  wife,  just  rescued  from  the  dead, 

Should  go  unquestioning  where  her  Orpheus  led. 

But  no  ;  for  woman's  strength  too  hard  the  task. 

"  Why  dost  thou  turn  thine  eyes  away  from  me  ? 

Am  I  grown  ugly,  then,  unfit  to  see? 

Unkind  !     Thou  lovest  not  Eurydice  ! " 


EURYDICE.  149 

Was  it  because  so  short  a  time  she  stayed 

Among  the  dead  that  she  had  not  grown  wise  ? 

Do  petty  doubts  and  fears  and  jealousies, 

Vanity,  selfishness,  the  stain  and  shade 

On  mortal  love,  survive  the  poignant  thrust 

Which,  winnowing  souls  from  out  their  hindering  dust, 

Should  wake  the  eyes  to  see,  the  heart  to  trust  ? 

If  we  came  back  to  those  who  love  us  so, 
And  fain  would  plead  with  Heaven  for  our  recall, 
Should  we  come  back  having  forgotten  all 
The  wisdom  which  all  spirits  needs  must  know? 
Would  the  old  faults  revive,  the  old  scars  sting, 
The  old  capacities  for  suffering 
Quicken  to  life  even  in  our  quickening? 

Oh,  lovely  myth,  with  just  this  marring  stain  ! 
I  will  not  think  that  such  deep  wrong  can  be. 
If  ever  it  were  given  to  one  again 
Earthward  to  turn  in  answer  to  Love's  plea, 
Surely  't  would  come  in  hushed  and  reverent  guise, 
With  gentlest  wisdom  in  far-seeing  eyes, 
Ripened  for  life  by  knowing  Paradise. 


150 


THREE    WORLDS. 


THREE  WORLDS. 

ITHIN  three  worlds  my  Sorrow  dwells ; 
Each  made  her  own  by  heavenly  right ; 

,    ..  . 

And  one  is  sadly  sweet  and  fair, 
And  one  is  bright  beyond  compare, 
And  one  is  void  of  light. 

One  is  the  world  of  long-past  things  ; 

There  she  can  go  at  will,  and  sit 
And  sun  herself  in  love's  embrace, 
And  see  upon  a  vanished  face 

The  tender,  old-time  meanings  flit. 

The  second,  veiled  in  glory  dim, 
She  only  dares  in  part  explore  ; 

Upon  its  misty  bound  she  stands, 

And  reaches  out  imploring  hands 

And  straining  eyes,  but  does  no  more. 


THREE    WORLDS. 

It  is  the  world  of  unknown  joy, 

Where  thou,  Beloved,  amid  thy  kin, 
The  saints  of  God,  the  Sons  of  Light, 
The  company  in  robes  of  white, 
Hast  been  made  free  to  enter  in. 

She  sees  thee,  companied  with  these, 

Standing  far  off  among  the  Blest, 
And  is  content  to  watch  and  wait, 
To  stand  afar  without  the  gate, 
Nor  interrupt  thy  perfect  rest. 

And  so  she  turns,  and  down  she  sinks 
To  her  third  world,  that  dreary  one, 

Which  once  was  shared  and  lit  by  thee, 

And  never  any  more  can  be, 
In  which  she  dwelleth  all  alone. 

It  were  too  dark  a  world  to  bear, 
Could  she  not  go,  her  pain  to  still, 

Into  the  fair  world  of  the  Past, 

Into  the  glory,  sure  and  vast, 
Made  thine  by  the  Eternal  Will. 


152  THREE    WORLDS. 

In  these  three  worlds  my  Sorrow  sits, 
And  each  is  dear  because  of  thee ; 
I  joyed  in  that,  I  wait  in  this, 
And  in  the  fulness  of  thy  bliss 
Thou  waitest  too,  I  know,  for  me. 


OPPORTUNITY.  1 5  3 


OPPORTUNITY. 

UT  yesterday,  but  yesterday, 
She  stood  beside  our  dusty  way, 
Outreaching  for  one  moment's  space 
The  key  to  fortune's  hiding-place. 

With  wistful  meanings  in  her  eyes, 
Her  radiance  veiled  in  dull  disguise, 
A  moment  paused,  then  turned  and  fled, 
Bearing  her  message  still  unsaid. 

And  we  ?     Our  eyes  were  on  the  dust  \ 
Still  faring  on  as  fare  all  must 
In  the  hot  glare  of  midday  sun 
Until  the  weary  way  be  done. 

So,  fast  and  far  she  sped  and  flew 
Into  the  depths  of  ether  blue  ; 
And  we,  too  late,  make  bitter  cry, 
"  Come  back,  dear  Opportunity  !  " 


154  OPPORTUNITY. 

In  vain  :  the  fleet,  unpausing  wings 
Stay  not  in  their  bright  journeyings  ; 
And  sadly  sweet  as  funeral  bell 
The  answer  drops,  "  Farewell !  Farewell"!  " 


CHRIST  BEFORE  PILATE.  I  $5 


CHRIST   BEFORE    PILATE. 

A   PICTURE. 

DIM  rich  space,  a  vault  of  arching  gold, 

A  furious,  shouting  rabble  pressing  near, 
A  single  sentinel  to  bar  and  hold 
With  his  one  spear. 

I  see  the  Roman  ruler  careless  sit 

To  judge  the  cause  in  his  accustomed  place  ; 
I  see  the  coarse,  dull,  cruel  meanings  flit 
Across  his  face. 

I  see  the  pitiless  priests  who  urge  and  rave, 

Intent  to  see  the  victim  sacrificed, 
Fearful  that  scruple  or  that  plea  should  save  — 
Where  is  the  Christ? 

Not  that  pale  shape  which  stands  amid  the  press, 

In  gentle  patience  uncomplainingly, 
Clad  in  the  whiteness  of  his  Teacher's  dress  — 
That  is  not  he  ! 


156  CHRIST  BEFORE  PILATE. 

That  slender  flame  were  easily  blown  out ; 

One  furious  gust  of  human  hate,  but  one  ! 
One  chilling  breath  of  treason  or  of  doubt  — 
And  it  were  gone  ! 

But  thou,  O  mighty  Christ,  endurest  still ; 

Quenchless  thy  fire,  fed  by  immortal  breath, 
Lord  of  the  heart,  Lord  of  the  erring  will, 
And  Lord  of  Death  ! 

King  of  the  world,  thou  livest  to  the  end, 

Ruling  the  nations  as  no  other  can ; 
Best  comrade,  healer,  teacher,  guide,  best  friend 
And  help  of  man. 

I  see  thee,  not  a  wan  and  grieving  shape, 
Facing,  like  lamb  led  forth  for  sacrifice, 
The  destiny  from  which  is  no  escape, 
With  mild,  sad  eyes,  — 

But  strong  and  brave  and  resolute  to  bear, 

Knowing  that  Death,  once  conquered,  was  to  be 
Thy  willing  thrall,  thy  servant  grave  and  fair, 
Best  help  to  thee  ! 


CHRIST  BEFORE  PILATE.  157 

The  vision  changes  on  the  pictured  scene ; 
The  pallid  Victim  fades,  and  in  his  place 
Comes  a  victorious,  steadfast,  glorious  mien, 
The  true  Christ's  face. 


158  NON  OMNIS  MORIAR. 


NON   OMNIS   MORIAR. 

H,  blue  and  glad  the  summer  skies, 
And  golden  green  the  widths  of  plain 

Where  sun  and  shadow  mingled  lay, 
As  forth  we  went,  with  gay  intent, 
Across  the  Mesa's  flowery  rise, 

To  where  the  shimmering  mountain  chain 
Beckoned  and  shone  from  far  away  ! 

The  noontide  flashed,  the  noontide  sang, 
Along  the  glittering  distant  track  ; 

The  dancing  wind  made  answer  brave. 
It  seemed  that  all  kept  festival, 
That  joy  fires  burned  and  joy  bells  rang ; 
But  still  our  hearts  went  hovering  back 
To  sit  beside  one  lonely  grave. 

It  seems  so  strange,  so  half  unkind, 
That  still  the  earth  with  life  should  stir, 
That  still  we  smile,  and  still  we  jest. 


NON  OMNIS  MORIAR.  159 

And  drink  our  share  of  sun  and  air 
And  joy  —  and  leave  her  there  behind  ; 
Nor  share  such  happy  things  with  her 
Who  always  gave  us  all  her  best ! 

And  yet  —  our  love  is  loyal  still ; 

And  yet  —  she  joyed  to  have  us  gay ; 

And  yet  —  the  moving  world  moves  on, 
And  does  not  wait  our  sad  estate, 
To  soothe  our  hurt  or  note  our  ill, 
But,  touch  by  touch,  and  day  by  day, 
Heals  us,  and  changes  every  one. 

But  she  ?     What  is  her  work  to  do  ? 
For  never  tell  me  that  she  lies 

Inactive,  lifeless,  in  the  mould, 
Content  to  keep  a  moveless  sleep 
While  worlds  revolve  in  courses  new. 
Her  fiery  zeal,  her  quick  emprise, 
Could  never  brook  such  rest  to  hold  ! 

That  grave  but  hides  her  worn-out  dress,  — 
One  of  God's  sure-winged  messengers 
I  see  her,  on  swift  errand  sped, 


I6O  NON  OMNIS  MORIAR. 

Glad  of  the  task  which  strong  souls  ask, 
Earth's  sharpest  pain  grown  littleness 
In  the  new  tide  of  life  made  hers, 
Smiling  that  we  should  call  her  dead  ! 

Smile  on,  dear  Heart,  until  the  dawn  ! 
When  once  the  eternal  heights  are  bared, 

And  the  long  earthly  shadows  flit, 

And  with  clear  eyes  we  front  the  skies, 

We  too  shall  smile  with  heavenly  scorn 

At  the  dull,  human  selves  who  dared 

To  call  life  "  Death  "  and  pity  it ! 


AT  DA  WN  OF  DA  Y.  l6l 


AT  DAWN   OF  DAY. 

HE  yellow  lighthouse  star  is  quenched 

Across  the  lonely  sea  ; 
The  mountains  rend  their  misty  veils, 
The  wind  of  dawn  blows  free  ; 
The  waves  beat  with  a  gladder  thrill, 

Pulsing  in  lines  of  spray, 
And  fast  and  far  chime  on  the  bar  — 
God  bless  my  Dear  to-day  ! 

A  thousand  leagues  may  lie  between 

A  world  of  distance  dim  ; 
But  speeding  with  the  speeding  light 

My  heart  goes  forth  to  him. 
Faster  than  wind  or  wave  it  flies, 

As  love  and  longing  may, 
And  undenied  stands  by  his  side  — 

God  bless  my  Dear  to-day  ! 


162  AT  DA  WN  OF  DA  Y, 

God  bless  him  if  he  wake  to  smiles, 

Or  if  he  wake  to  sighs  ; 
Temper  his  will  to  bear  all  fate, 

And  keep  him  true  and  wise  ; 
Be  to  him  all  I  fain  would  be 

Who  am  so  far  away, — 
Light,  counsel,  consolation,  cheer  — 

God  bless  my  Dear  to-day  ! 

The  gradual  light  has  grown  full  fain, 

And  streameth  far  abroad. 
The  urgence  of  my  voiceless  plea 

Is  gathered  up  by  God. 
Take  some  sweet  thing  which  else  were  mine, 

Inly  I  dare  to  pray, 
And  with  it  brim  his  cup  of  joy  — 

God  bless  my  Dear  to-day  ! 


WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN.  163 


WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE   BEEN. 


O  many  things  there  might  have  been, 

Had  our  dear  child  not  died. 
We  count  them  up  and  call  them  o'er, 
We  weigh  the  less  against  the  more,  — 
The  joy  she  never  knew  or  shared, 
The  bitter  woes  forever  spared, 

The  dangers  turned  aside, 
Heaven's  full  security,  —  and  then 
Perplexed  we  sigh,  —  all  might  have  been. 

We  might  have  seen  her  sweet  cheeks  glow 

With  love's  own  happy  bloom, 
Her  eyes  with  maiden  gladness  full, 
Finding  the  whole  world  beautiful ; 
We  might  have  seen  the  joyance  fail, 
The  dear  face  sadden  and  grow  pale, 

The  smiles  fade  into  gloom, 
Love's  sun  grow  dim  and  sink  again,  — 
Either  of  these  it  might  have  been. ' 


1 64  WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

We  might  have  seen  her  with  the  crown 

Of  wifehood  on  her  head, 
A  queen  of  home's  fair  sovereignties, 
With  little  children  at  her  knees  ; 
Or,  broken-hearted  and  alone, 
Bereft  and  widowed  of  her  own, 

Mourning  beside  her  dead,  — 
This  thing  or  that,  beyond  our  ken, 
It  might  have  been,  it  might  have  been. 

There  is  no  need  of  question  now, 

No  doubts  or  risks  or  fears  : 
Safe  folded  in  the  Eternal  care, 
Grown  fairer  each  day  and  more  fair, 
With  radiance  in  the  clear  young  eyes 
Which  in  cool,  depths  of  Paradise 

Look  without  stain  of  tears, 
Reading  the  Lord's  intent,  and  then 
Smiling  to  think  what  might  have  been. 

We  too  will  smile,  O  dearest  child  ! 

Our  dull  souls  may  not  know 
The  deep  things  hidden  from  mortal  sense, 
Which  feed  thy  heavenly  confidence. 


WHA  T  MIGHT  HA  VE  BEEN.  165 

On  this  one  sure  thought  can  we  rest, 
That  God  has  chosen  for  thee  the  best, 

Or  else  it  were  not  so  ; 
He  called  thee  back  to  Heaven  again 
Because  he  knew  what  might  have  been. 


1 66  SOME   TIME. 


SOME   TIME. 

HE  night  will  round  into  the  morn, 

The  angry  storm-wind  cease  to  beat, 
The  spent  bird  preen  his  wet  tired  wing, 
Grief  ceaseth  when  the  babe  is  born. 
There  comes  an  end  to  hardest  thing 

Some  time,  — 
Some  time,  some  far  time,  late  but  sweet. 

I  could  not  keep  on  with  the  fight ; 

I  could  not  face  my  want,  my  sin, 
The  baffled  hope,  the  urgent  foe, 
The  mighty  wrong,  the  struggling  right, 
Excepting  that  I  surely  know 

Some  time  — 
Some  time,  some  dear  time,  —  I  shall  win. 

I  could  not  hold  so  sure,  so  fast, 

The  truth  which  is  to  me  so  true, 
The  truth  which  men  deride  and  shun, 


SOME   TIME.  167 

Were  I  not  sure  it  shall  at  last 
Be  held  as  truth  by  every  one 

Some  time, — 
Some  time  all  men  shall  own  it  too. 

Some  time  the  morning  bells  shall  chime, 
Some  time  be  heard  the  victor-song, 
Some  time  the  hard  goal  be  attained, 
The  puzzles  shall  be  clear  some  time, 
The  tears  all  shed,  the  gains  all  gained, 

Some  time  — 
Ah,  dear  time,  tarry  not  too  long  ! 


1 68          STARS  IN  THE  SKY  ALL  DAY. 


THE  STARS  ARE   IN   THE  SKY  ALL  DAY. 

HE  stars  are  in  the  sky  all  day ; 
Each  linked  coil  of  Milky  Way, 
And  every  planet  that  we  know, 
Behind  the  sun  are  circling  slow. 
They  sweep,  they  climb  with  stately  tread,  — 
Venus  the  fair  and  Mars  the  red, 
Saturn  engirdled  with  clear  light, 
And  Jupiter  with  moons  of  white. 
Each  knows  his  path  and  keeps  due  tryst ; 
Not  even  the  smallest  star  is  missed 
From  those  wide  fields  of  deeper  sky 
Which  gleam  and  flash  mysteriously, 
As  if  God's  outstretched  fingers  must 
Have  sown  them  thick  with  diamond  dust. 
There  are  they  all  day  long  ;  but  we, 
Sun-blinded,  have  no  eyes  to  see. 


STARS  IN  THE  SKY  ALL  DAY.          169 

The  stars  are  in  the  sky  all  day ; 
But  when  the  sun  has  gone  away, 
And  hovering  shadows  cool  the  west, 
And  call  the  sleepy  birds  to  rest, 
And  heaven  grows  softly  dim  and  dun, 
Into  its  darkness  one  by  one 
Steal  forth  those  starry  shapes  all  fair  — 
We  say  steal  forth,  but  they  were  there, 
There  all  day  long,  unseen,  unguessed, 
Climbing  the  sky  from  east  to  west. 
The  angels  saw  them  where  they  hid, 
And  so,  perhaps,  the  eagles  did, 
For  they  can  face  the  sharp  sun-ray, 
Nor  wink,  nor  need  to  look  away  ; 
But  we,  blind  mortals,  gazed  from  far, 
And  did  not  see  a  single  star. 

I  wonder  if  the  world  is  full 

Of  other  secrets  beautiful, 

As  little  guessed,  as  hard  to  see, 

As  this  sweet  starry  mystery? 

Do  angels  veil  themselves  in  space, 

And  make  the  sun  their  hiding-place? 

Do  white  wings  flash  as  spirits  go 

On  heavenly  errands  to  and  fro, 


170          STARS  IN  THE  SKY  ALL  DAY. 

While  we,  down-looking,  never  guess 
How  near  our  lives  they  crowd  and  press  ? 
If  so,  at  life's  set  we  may  see 
Into  the  dusk  steal  noiselessly 
Sweet  faces  that  we  used  to  know, 
Dear  eyes  like  stars  that  softly  glov/, 
Dear  hands  stretched  out  to  point  the  way, 
And  deem  the  night  more  fair  than  day. 


NOW. 


NOW. 

:1OVE  me  now  !     Love  has  such  a  little  minute  ! 
Day  crowds  on  day  with  swift  and   noiseless 

tread, 
Life's  end  comes  ere  fairly  we  begin  it ; 

Pain  jostles  joy,  and  hope  gives  place  to  dread. 

Love  me  now  ! 
It  will  be  too  late  when  we  are  dead  ! 

Love  me  now  !     While  we  still  are  young  together, 
While  glad  and  brave  the  sun  shines  overhead, 

Hand  locked  in  hand,  in  blue,  smiling  weather. 
Sighing  were  sin,  and  variance  ill  bestead ; 
It  will  be  too  late  when  you  are  dead  ! 

Love  me  now  !     Shadows  hover  in  the  distance, 
Cold  winds  are  coming,  green  leaves  must  turn  red. 

Frownest  thou,  my  Love,  at  this  sad  insistence? 
Even  this  moment  may  the  dart  be  sped. 

Love  me  now ! 
It  will  be  too  late  when  I  am  dead  ! 


JUST  BEYOND. 


JUST   BEYOND. 

HEN  out  of  the  body  the  soul  is  sent, 
As  a  bird  speeds  forth  from  the  opened  tent, 
As  the  smoke  flies  out  when  it  finds  a  vent, 
To  lose  itself  in  the  spending,  — 

Does  it  travel  wide,  does  it  travel  far, 
To  find  the  place  where  all  spirits  are? 
Does  it  measure  long  leagues  from  star  to  star, 
And  feel  its  travel  unending? 

And  caught  by  each  baffling,  blowing  wind, 
Storm-tossed  and  beaten,  before,  behind, 
Till  the  courage  fails  and  the  sight  is  blind, 
Must  it  go  in  search  of  its  heaven  ? 

I  do  not  think  that  it  can  be  so  ; 
For  weary  is  life,  as  all  men  know, 
And  battling  and  struggling  to  and  fro 
Man  goes  from  his  morn  to  his  even. 


JUST  BEYOND.  1/3 

And  surely  this  is  enough  to  bear,  — 
The  long  day's  work  in  the  sun's  hot  glare, 
The  doubt  and  the  loss  which  breed  despair, 
The  anguish  of  baffled  hoping. 

And  when  the  end  of  it  all  has  come, 
And  the  soul  has  won  the  right  to  its  home, 
I  do  not  believe  it  must  wander  and  roam 
Through  the  infinite  spaces  groping. 

No ;  wild  may  the  storm  be,  and  dark  the  day, 
And  the  shuddering  soul  may  clasp  its  clay, 
Afraid  to  go  and  unwilling  to  stay ; 
But  when  it  girds  it  for  going, 

With  a  rapture  of  sudden  consciousness, 
I  think  it  awakes  to  a  knowledge  of  this, 
That  heaven  earth's  closest  neighbor  is, 
And  only  waits  for  our  knowing ; 

That  't  is  but  a  step  from  dark  to  day, 
From  the  worn-out  tent  and  the  burial  clay, 
To  the  rapture  of  youth  renewed  for  aye, 
And  the  smile  of  the  saints  uprisen  ; 


174  JUST  BEYOND. 

And  that  just  where  the  soul,  perplexed  and  awed, 
Begins  its  journey,  it  meets  the  Lord, 
And  finds  that  heaven  and  the  great  reward 
Lay  just  outside  of  its  prison  ! 


CONTACT.  1/5 


CONTACT. 

O  soul  can  be  quite  separate, 
However  set  apart  by  fate, 
However  cold  or  dull  or  shy, 
Or  shrinking  from  the  public  eye. 
The  world  is  common  to  the  race, 
And  nowhere  is  a  hiding-place  ; 
Before,  behind,  on  either  side, 
The  surging  masses  press,  divide  ; 
Behind,  before,  with  rhythmic  beat, 
Is  heard  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 
To  left,  to  right,  they  urge,  they  fare, 
And  touch  us  here,  and  touch  us  there. 
Hold  back  your  garment  as  you  will, 
The  crowding  world  will  rub  it  still. 
Then,  since  such  contact  needs  must  be, 
What  shall  it  do  for  you  and  me  ? 

Shall  it  be  cold  and  hard  alone, 

As  when  a  stone  doth  touch  a  stone, 


CONTACT. 

Fruitless,  unwelcome,  and  unmeant, 

Put  by  as  a  dull  accident, 

While  we  pass  onward,  deaf  and  blind, 

With  no  relenting  look  behind  ? 

Or  as  when  two  round  drops  of  rain, 

Let  fall  upon  a  window-pane, 

Wander,  divergent,  from  their  course, 

Led  by  some  blind,  instinctive  force, 

Mingle  and  blend  and  interfuse, 

Their  separate  shapes  and  being  lose, 

Made  one  thereafter  and  the  same, 

Identical  in  end  and  aim, 

Nor  brighter  gleam,  nor  faster  run, 

Because  they  are  not  two,  but  one  ? 

Or  shall  we  meet  in  warring  mood, 
The  contact  of  the  fire  and  flood, 
Decreed  by  Nature  and  by  Will, 
The  one  to  warm,  the  one  to  chill, 
The  one  to  burn,  the  one  to  slake, 
To  thwart  and  counteract  and  make 
Each  other's  wretchedness,  and  dwell 
In  hate  irreconcilable  ? 
Or  as  when  fierce  fire  meets  frail  straw, 


CONTACT.  177 

And  carries  out  the  fatal  law 

Which  makes  the  weaker  thing  to  be 

The  prey  of  strength  and  tyranny  ; 

A  careless  touch,  half  scorn,  half  mirth, 

A  brief  resistance,  little  worth  ; 

A  little  blaze  soon  quenched  and  marred, 

And  ashes  ever  afterward? 

No  ;  let  us  meet,  since  meet  we  must, 
Not  shaking  off  the  common  dust, 
As  if  we  feared  our  fellow-men, 
And  fain  would  walk  aloof  from  them  ; 
Not  fruitlessly,  as  rain  meets  rain, 
To  lose  ourselves  and  nothing  gain  ; 
Not  fiercely,  prey  to  adverse  fate, 
And  not  to  spoil  and  desolate. 
But  as  we  meet  and  touch,  each  day, 
The  many  travellers  on  our  way, 
Let  every  such  brief  contact  be 
A  glorious,  helpful  ministry; 
The  contact  of  the  soil  and  seed, 
Each  giving  to  the  other  s  need, 
Each  helping  on  the  others  best, 
And  blessing,  each,  as  well  as  blest. 


AN  EASTER  SONG. 


AN    EASTER   SONG. 

i  E  bore  to  see  the  summer  go ; 

We  bore  to  see  the  ruthless  wind 
Beat  all  the  golden  leaves  and  red 
In  drifting  masses  to  and  fro, 

Till  not  a  leaf  remained  behind  ; 
We  faced  the  winter's  frown,  and  said, 
"  There  comes  reward  for  all  our  pain, 
For  every  loss  there  comes  a  gain  ; 
And  spring,  which  never  failed  us  yet, 

Out  of  the  snow-drift  and  the  ice 
Shall  some  day  bring  the  violet." 

We  bore  —  what  could  we  do  but  bear  ?  — 

To  see  youth  perish  in  its  prime, 
And  hope  grow  faint,  and  joyance  grieved, 
And  dreams  all  vanish  in  thin  air, 
And  beauty,  at  the  touch  of  time, 


AN  EASTER   SONG. 

Become  a  memory,  half  believed ; 
Still  we  could  smile,  and  still  we  said, 
"  Hope,  joy,  and  beauty  are  not  dead ; 

God's  angel  guards  them  all  and  sees  — 
Close  by  the  grave  he  sits  and  waits  — 

There  comes  a  spring  for  even  these." 

We  bore  to  see  dear  faces  pale, 

Dear  voices  falter,  smiles  grow  wan, 

And  life  ebb  like  a  tide  at  sea, 

Till  underneath  the  misty  veil 
Our  best  beloved,  one  by  one, 

Vanished  and  parted  silently. 

We  stayed  without,  but  still  could  say, 
"  Grief's  winter  dureth  not  alway  ; 

Who  sleep  in  Christ  with  Christ  shall  rise. 
We  wait  our  Easter  morn  in  tears, 

They  in  the  smile  of  Paradise." 

O  thought  of  healing,  word  of  strength  ! 

O  light  to  lighten  darkest  way  ! 
O  saving  help  and  balm  of  ill ! 
For  all  our  dead  shall  dawn  at  length 

A  slowly  broadening  Easter  Day, 
A  Resurrection  calm  and  still. 


ISO  AN  EASTER  SONG. 

The  little  sleep  will  not  seem  long, 
The  silence  shall  break  out  in  song, 

The  sealed  eyes  shall  ope,  —  and  then 
We  who  have  waited  patiently 

Shall  live  and  have  our  own  again. 


CONCORD.  l8l 

CONCORD. 

MAY  31,  1882. 

ARTHER  horizons  every  year  !  " 
Oh,  tossing  pines  which  surge  and  wave 
Above  the  poet's  just  made  grave, 
And  waken  for  his  sleeping  ear 
The  music  that  he  loved  to  hear, 
Through  summer's  sun  and  winter's  chill, 
With  purpose  stanch  and  dauntless  will, 
Sped  by  a  noble  discontent, 
You  climb  toward  the  blue  firmament,  — 
Climb  as  the  winds  climb,  mounting  high 
The  viewless  ladders  of  the  sky ; 
Spurning  our  lower  atmosphere, 
Heavy  with  sighs  and  dense  with  night, 
And  urging  upward  year  by  year 
To  ampler  air,  diviner  light. 

"  Farther  horizons  every  year  !  " 
Beneath  you  pass  the  tribes  of  men, 
Your  gracious  boughs  o'ershadow  them  ; 
You  hear,  but  do  not  seem  to  heed 


1 82  CONCORD. 

Their  jarring  speech,  their  faulty  creed. 
Your  roots  are  firmly  set  in  soil 
Won  from  their  humming  paths  of  toil ; 
Content  their  lives  to  watch  and  share, 
To  serve  them,  shelter,  and  upbear, 
Yet  bent  to  win  an  upward  way 
And  larger  gift  of  heaven  than  they, 
Benignant  view  and  attitude, 
Close  knowledge  of  celestial  sign, 
Still  working  for  all  earthly  good 
While  pressing  on  to  the  Divine. 

"  Farther  horizons  every  year  !  " 
So  he,  by  reverent  hands  just  laid 
Beneath  your  boughs  of  wavering  shade, 
Climbed  as  you  climb  the  upward  way, 
Knowing  not  boundary  or  stay. 
His  eyes  surcharged  with  heavenly  lights, 
His  senses  steeped  in  heavenly  sights, 
His  soul  attuned  to  heavenly  keys, 
How  should  he  pause  for  rest  and  ease, 
Or  turn  his  winged  feet  again, 
To  share  the  common  feasts  of  men  ? 
He  blessed  them  with  his  word  and  smile, 


CONCORD.  183 

But  still,  above  their  fickle  moods, 
Wooing,  constraining  him  awhile, 
Beckoned  the  shining  altitudes. 

"  Farther  horizons  every  year  !  " 
To  what  immeasurable  height, 
What  clear  irradiance  of  light, 
What  far  and  all-transcendent  goal 
Hast  thou  now  risen,  O  steadfast  soul ! 
We  may  not  follow  with  our  eyes 
To  where  thy  farther  pathway  lies, 
Nor  guess  what  vision  vast  and  free 
God  keeps  in  store  for  souls  like  thee. 
But  still  the  pines  that  bend  and  wave 
Their  boughs  above  thy  honored  grave 
Shall  be  thy  emblem  brave  and  fit, 
Firm-rooted  in  the  stalwart  sod, 
Blessing  the  earth  while  spurning  it, 
Content  with  nothing  short  of  God. 


1 84  HEREAFTER. 


HEREAFTER. 

JHEN  we  are  dead,  when  you  and  I  are  dead, 

Have  rent  and  tossed  aside  each  earthly  fettei 
And  wiped  the  grave-dust  from  our  wonderinj 

eyes, 
And  stand  together,  fronting  the  sunrise, 

I  think  that  we  shall  know  each  other  better. 

Puzzle  and  pain  will  lie  behind  us  then  ; 

All  will  be  known  and  all  will  be  forgiven. 
We  shall  be  glad  of  every  hardness  past, 
And  not  one  earthly  shadow  shall  be  cast 

To  dim  the  brightness  of  the  bright  new  heaven. 

And  I  shall  know,  and  you  as  well  as  I, 

What  was  the  hindering  thing  our  whole  lives  through, 
Which  kept  me  always  shy,  constrained,  distressed  ; 
Why  I,  to  whom  you  were  the  first  and  best, 

Could  never,  never  be  my  best  with  you ; 


HEREAFTER.  185 

Why,  loving  you  as  dearly  as  I  did, 

And  prizing  you  above  all  earthly  good, 
I  yet  was  cold  and  dull  when  you  were  by, 
And  faltered  in  my  speech  or  shunned  your  eye, 
Unable  quite  to  say  the  thing  I  would ; 

Could  never  front  you  with  the  happy  ease 
Of  those  whose  perfect  trust  has  cast  out  fear, 

Or  take,  content,  from  Love  his  daily  dole. 

But  longed  to  grasp  and  be  and  have  the  whole, 
As  blind  men  long  to  see,  the  deaf  to  hear. 

My  dear  Love,  when  I  forward  look,  and  think 
Of  all  these  baffling  barriers  swept  away, 

Against  which  I  have  beat  so  long  and  strained, 

Of  all  the  puzzles  of  the  past  explained, 
I  almost  wish  that  we  could  die  to-day. 


1 86  OUR  DAILY  BREAD. 


OUR   DAILY  BREAD. 

IVE  us  our  daily  bread,"  we  pray, 
And  know  but  half  of  what  we  say. 

The  bread  on  which  our  bodies  feed 
Is  but  the  moiety  of  our  need. 

The  soul,  the  heart,  must  nourished  be, 
And  share  the  daily  urgency. 

And  though  it  may  be  bitter  bread 
On  which  these  nobler  parts  are  fed, 

No  less  we  crave  the  daily  dole, 
O  Lord,  of  body  and  of  soul ! 

Sweet  loaves,  the  wine-must  all  afoam, 
The  manna,  and  the  honey-comb,  — 

All  these  are  good,  but  better  still 

The  food  which  checks  and  moulds  the  will. 


OUR  DAILY  BREAD.  1 87 

The  sting  for  pride,  the  smart  for  sin, 
The  purging  draught  for  self  within, 

The  sorrows  which  we  shuddering  meet, 
Not  knowing  their  after-taste  of  sweet,  — 

All  these  we  ask  for  when  we  pray, 
"  Give  us  our  daily  bread  this  day." 

Lord,  leave  us  not  athirst,  unfed  ; 
Give  us  this  best  and  hardest  bread, 

Until,  these  mortal  needs  all  past, 
We  sit  at  thy  full  feast  at  last, 

The  bread  of  angels  broken  by  thee, 
The  wine  of  joy  poured  constantly. 


1 88  SLEEPING  AND    WAKING, 


SLEEPING  AND   WAKING. 

OD  giveth  his  beloved  sleep ; 

They  lie  securely  'neath  his  wing 
Till  the  night  pale,  the  dawning  break ; 
Safe  in  its  overshadowing 
They  fear  no  dark  and  harmful  thing  ;  — 
What  does  he  give  to  those  who  wake  ? 

To  those  who  sleep  he  gives  good  dreams ; 
For  bodies  overtasked  and  spent 

Comes  rest  to  comfort  every  ache ; 
To  weary  eyes  new  light  is  sent, 
To  weary  spirits  new  content ;  — 

What  does  God  give  to  those  who  wake  ? 

His  angels  sit  beside  the  beds 
Of  such  as  rest  beneath  his  care. 

Unweariedly  their  post  they  take, 

They  wave  their  wings  to  fan  the  air, 
They  cool  the  brow  and  stroke  the  hair,  — 

God  comes  himself  to  those  who  wake. 


SLEEPING  AND    WAKING.  189 

To  fevered  eyes  that  cannot  close, 
To  hearts  o'erburdened  with  their  lot, 

He  comes  to  soothe,  to  heal,  to  slake ; 
Close  to  the  pillows  hard  and  hot 
He  stands,  although  they  see  him  not, 

And  taketh  care  of  those  who  wake. 

Nor  saint  nor  angel  will  he  trust 
With  this  one  blessed  ministry, 

Lest  they  should  falter  or  mistake  ; 
They  guard  the  sleepers  faithfully 
Who  are  the  Lord's  beloved ;  but  he 

Watches  by  those  beloved  who  wake. 

Oh,  in  the  midnight  dense  and  drear, 
When  life  drifts  outward  with  the  tide, 

And  mortal  terrors  overtake, 

In  this  sure  thought  let  us  abide, 
And  unafraid  be  satisfied,  — 

God  comes  himself  to  those  who  wake  ! 


190  THORNS. 


THORNS. 

OSES  have  thorns,  and  love  is  thorny  too ; 
And   this  is  love's  sharp  thorn    which  guards 

its  flower, 

That  our  beloved  have  the  cruel  power 
To  hurt  us  deeper  than  all  others  do. 

The  heart  attuned  to  our  heart  like  a  charm, 
Beat  answering  beat,  as  echo  answers  song, 
If  the  throb  falter,  or  the  pulse  beat  wrong, 

How  shall  it  fail  to  grieve  us  or  to  harm  ? 

The  taunt  which,  uttered  by  a  stranger's  lips, 

Scarce  heard,  scarce  minded,  passed  us  like  the  wind, 
Breathed  by  a  dear  voice,  which  has  grown  unkind, 

Turns  sweet  to  bitter,  sunshine  to  eclipse. 

The  instinct  of  a  change  we  cannot  prove, 
The  pitiful  tenderness,  the  sad  too-much, 
The  sad  too-little,  shown  in  look  or  touch,  — 

All  these  are  wounding  thorns  of  thorny  love. 


THORNS.  191 

Ah,  sweetest  rose  which  earthly  gardens  bear, 
Fought  for,  desired,  life's  guerdon  and  life's  end, 
Although  your  thorns  may  slay  and  wound  and  rend, 

Still  men  must  snatch  you  ;  for  you  are  so  fair. 


192  A   NEW-ENGLAND  LADY. 


A  NEW-ENGLAND    LADY. 

HE  talks  of  "  gentry  "  still,  and  "birth," 

And  holds  the  good  old-fashioned  creed 
Of  widely  differing  ranks  and  station, 


And  gentle  blood,  whose  obligation 
Is  courteous  word  and  friendly  deed. 

She  knows  her  own  ancestral  line, 
And  numbers  all  its  links  of  honor ; 

But  in  her  theory  of  right  living 

Good  birth  involves  good  will,  good  giving,  — 
A  daily  duty  laid  upon  her. 

Her  hands  are  versed  in  household  arts  : 

She  kneads  and  stirs,  compounds  and  spices ; 

Her  bread  is  famous  in  the  region  ; 

Her  cakes  and  puddings  form  a  legion 
Of  sure  successes,  swift  surprises. 


A   NEW-ENGLAND  LADY.  193 

A  lady  in  her  kitchen  apron  ; 

Always  a  lady,  thongh  she  labors ; 
She  has  a  "faculty  "  prompt  and  certain, 
Which  makes  each  flower-bed,  gown,  and  curtain 

A  standing  wonder  to  her  neighbors. 

Her  days  seem  measured  by  some  planet 
More  liberal  than  our  common  sun  is  ; 

For  she  finds  time  when  others  miss  it 

The  poor  to  cheer,  the  sick  to  visit, 
And  carry  brightness  in  where  none  is. 

Behold  her  as,  her  day's  work  over, 

Her  house  from  attic  to  door-scraper 
In  order,  all  her  tasks  completed, 
She  sits  down,  calm,  composed,  unheated, 

To  read  her  Emerson  or  her  paper. 

She  hears  the  new  aesthetic  Gospel, 

And  unconvinced  although  surprised  is  ; 

Her  family  knows  what  is  proper. 

She  smiles,  and  does  not  care  a  copper, 
Although  her  carpet  stigmatized  is. 


194  A   NEW-ENGLAND  LADY. 

She  does  not  quite  accept  tradition  ; 

She  has  her  private  theory  ready ; 
Her  shrewd,  quaint  insight  baffles  leading ; 
And  straight  through  dogma's  special  pleading 

She  holds  her  own,  composed  and  steady. 

Kindness  her  law ;  her  king  is  duty. 

You  cannot  bend  her  though  you  break  her ; 
As  tough  as  yew  and  as  elastic 
Her  fibre  ;  unconvinced,  unplastic,  — 

She  clasps  conviction  like  a  Quaker. 

Long  live  her  type,  to  be  our  anchor 

When  times  go  wrong  and  true  men  rally, 

Till  aged  Chocorua  fails  and  bleaches 

Beside  the  shining  Saco  reaches, 
Monadnock  by  the  Jaffrey  valley. 


UNDER  THE  SNOW.         19$ 


UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

NDER  the  snow  lie  sweet  things  out  of  sight, 

Couching  like  birds  beneath  a  downy  breast ; 
They  cluster  'neath  the  coverlet  warm  and  white, 
And  bide  the  winter-time  in  hopeful  rest. 

There  are  the  hyacinths,  holding  ivory  tips 

Pointed  and  ready  for  a  hint  of  sun  ; 
And  hooded  violets,  with  dim,  fragrant  lips 

Asleep  and  dreaming  fairy  dreams  each  one. 

There  lurk  a  myriad  quick  and  linked  roots, 
Coiled  for  a  spring  when  the  ripe  time  is  near ; 

The  brave  chrysanthemum's  pale  yellow  shoots 
And  daffodils,  the  vanguard  of  the  year ; 

The  nodding  snowdrop  and  the  columbine ; 

The  hardy  crocus,  prompt  to  hear  a  call ; 
Pensile  wistaria  and  thick  woodbine  ; 

y\nd  valley  lilies,  sweetest  of  them  all. 


196  UNDER   THE   SNOW. 

All  undismayed,  although  the  drifts  are  deep, 
All  sure  of  spring  and  strong  of  cheer  they  lie  ; 

And  we,  who  see  but  snows,  we  smile  and  keep 
The  selfsame  courage  in  the  by  and  by. 

Ah  !  the  same  drifts  shroud  other  precious  things, 
Flower-like  faces,  pallid  now  and  chill, 

Feet  laid  to  rest  after  long  journeyings, 
And  fair  and  folded  hands  forever  still. 

All  undismayed,  in  deep  and  hushed  repose, 
Waiting  a  sweeter,  further  spring,  they  lie  ; 

And  we,  whose  yearning  eyes  see  but  the  snows, 
Shall  we  not  trust,  like  them,  the  by  and  by  ? 


SONNET.  197 

SONNET 

FOR    A    BIRTHDAY. 

WISH  thee  sound  health  and  true  sanity, 
Ripe  youth,  a  summer  heart  in  age's  snow, 
Abiding  joy  in  knowledge,  wealth  enow 


That  of  the  best  thou  ne'er  mayst  hindered  be ; 

Long  life,  love,  marriage,  children,  faithful  friends, 

Purpose  in  all  thy  doing,  stintless  zeal, 

Ambition,  enthusiasm,  the  power  to  feel 

Thy  country  dearer  than  thy  private  ends  ; 

The  threefold  joy  of  Nature,  books,  and  fun, 

To  be  thy  solace  in  adversity, 

To  keep  thy  father's  name  as  clean  as  he, 

And  so  transmit  it  stainless  to  thy  son  ; 

And  lastly,  crown  of  glory  and  of  strife, 

May  honored  death  give  thee  Eternal  Life. 

Now  count  my  wishes,  and,  the  numbering  done, 
You  '11  find  the  enumeration  —  twenty-one. 


198  LOVE    UNQUENCHABLE. 


"MANY  WATERS  CANNOT  QUENCH  LOVE." 

LITTLE  grave  in  a  desolate  spot, 

Where  the  sun  scarce  shines  and  flowers  grow 

not, 

Where  the  prayers  of  the  church  are  never  heard, 
And  the  funeral  bell  swings  not  in  air, 

And  the  brooding  silence  is  only  stirred 
By  the  cries  of  wild  birds  nesting  there  ; 
A  low  headstone,  and  a  legend,  green 
With  moss  :  "  Leonora,  just  seventeen." 

Here  she  was  laid  long  years  ago, 

A  child  in  years,  but  a  woman  in  woe. 

Her  sorrowful  story  is  half  forgot, 
Her  playmates  are  old  and  bent  and  gray, 

And  no  one  comes  to  visit  the  spot 
Where,  watched  by  the  law,  was  hurried  away 

The  youth  cut  short,  and  the  hapless  bloom 

Which  fled  from  its  sorrow  to  find  the  tomb. 


LOVE   UNQUENCHABLE.  199 

Her  mourning  kindred  pleaded  in  vain 
The  broken  heart  and  the  frenzied  brain ; 

The  church  had  no  pardon  for  such  as  died 
Unblessed  by  the  church,  and  sternly  barred 

All  holy  ground  to  the  suicide  ; 
So  death  as  life  to  the  girl  was  hard, 

And  the  potter's  field  with  its  deep  disgrace 

Was  her  only  permitted  resting-place. 

So  the  friends  who  loved  her  laid  her  there 
With  no  word  of  comfort,  no  word  of  prayer, 

And  years  went  by  ;  but  as,  one  by  one, 
They  dropped  from  their  daily  tasks  and  died, 

And  turned  their  faces  from  the  sun, 
They  were  carried  and  buried  by  her  side,  — 

Each  gave  command  that  such  should  be, 

"  For  love  to  keep  her  company." 

So  the  little  grave,  with  the  letters  green, 
Of  "  Leonora,  just  seventeen," 

Is  ringed  about  with  kindred  dust, 
Not  lonely  like  the  other  graves 

In  that  sad  place,  wherein  are  thrust 
Outcasts  and  nameless  folk  and  slaves, 

But  gently  held  and  folded  fast 

In  the  arms  that  loved  her  first  and  last. 


200  LOVE    UNQUENCHABLE. 

O  potter's  field,  did  I  call  you  bare  ? 
No  garden  on  earth  can  be  more  fair  ! 

For  deathless  love  has  a  deathless  bloom, 
And  the  lily  of  faithfulness  a  flower, 

And  they  grow  beside  each  lowly  tomb, 
And  balm  it  with  fragrance  every  hour  ; 

And  with  God,  who  forgiveth  till  seven  times  seven, 

A  potter's  field  may  be  gate  of  heaven 


UNEXHAUSTED.  2OI 


UNEXHAUSTED. 

RE  all  the  songs  sung,  all  the  music  played? 
Are  the  keys  quite  worn   out,  and   soundless 

quite, 

Which  since  sweet  fancy's  dawning  day  have  made 
Perpetual  melody  for  man's  delight, 
And  charmed  the  dull  day  and  the  heavy  night? 

Must  we  go  on  with  stale,  repeated  themes, 

Content  with  threadbare  chords  that  faint  and  fail, 

Till  all  the  fairy  fabric  of  old  dreams 
Becomes  a  jaded,  oft-repeated  tale, 
And  poetry  grows  tired,  and  romance  pale  ? 

I  cannot  think  it ;  for  the  soul  of  man 
Is  strung  to  answer  to  such  myriad  keys 

Set  and  attuned  and  chorded  on  a  plan 
Of  intricate  and  vibrant  harmonies, 
How  shall  we  limit  that,  or  measure  these  ? 


202  UNEXHA  USTED. 

As  free  and  urgent  as  the  air  that  moves, 
As  quick  to  tremble  as  yEolian  strings, 

The  soul  responds  and  thrills  to  hates  and  loves, 
Desires  and  hopes,  and  joys  and  sufferings, 
And  sympathy's  soft  touch  and  anger's  stings. 

How  dare  we  say  the  breezes  all  are  blown, 
The  chords  have  no  reserved  sweet  in  store  ; 

Or  claim  that  all  is  tested  and  made  known,  — 
That  nightingales  may  trill,  or  skylarks  soar, 
But  neither  can  surprise  us  any  more  ? 

The  world  we  call  so  old,  God  names  his  new ; 
The  thought  we  christen  stale  shall  outlast  men, 

While  moons  shall  haunt  the  sky,  and  stars  gleam  through, 
While  roses  blossom  on  their  thorny  stern, 
And  spring  comes  back  again,  and  yet  again  ; 

While  human  things  like  blossoms  small  and  white 
Are  dropped  on  earth  from  unseen  parent  skies, 

The  olden  dreams  shall  please,  the  songs  delight, 
And  those  who  shape  and  weave  fair  fantasies 
Shall  catch  the  answering  shine  in  new-born  eyes. 


WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL.  203 


WELCOME   AND    FAREWELL. 

HEN  the  New  Year  came,  we  said, 
Half  with  hope  and  half  with  dread  : 
"  Welcome,  child,  new-born  to  be 
Last  of  Time's  great  family  ! 
All  thy  brethren,  bent  and  gray, 
Aged  and  worn,  have  passed  away 
To  the  place  where  dead  years  go,  — 
Place  which  mortals  cannot  know. 
Thou  art  fairest  of  them  all, 
Ivory-limbed  and  strong  and  tall, 
Gold  hair  blown  back,  and  deep  eyes 
Full  of  happy  prophecies  ; 
Rose-bloom  on  thy  youthful  cheek. 

Welcome,  child  !  "     And  all  the  while 
The  sweet  New  Year  did  not  speak, 

Though  we  thought  we  saw  him  smile. 

When  the  Old  Year  went,  we  said, 
Looking  at  his  grim  gray  head, 
At  the  shoulders  burden-bowed, 
And  the  sad  eyes  dark  with  cloud  : 


204  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 

"  Was  he  ever  young  and  fair? 
Did  we  praise  his  sunny  hair 
And  glad  eyes,  with  promise  lit? 
We  can  scarce  remember  it. 
Treacherously  he  smiled,  nor  spoke, 
Hiding  'neath  his  rainbow  cloak 
Store  of  grievous  things  to  strew 
On  the  way  that  we  must  go. 
Vain  to  chide  him  ;  old  and  weak, 

He  is  dying ;  let  him  die." 
And  the  Old  Year  did  not  speak, 

But  we  thought  we  heard  him  sigh. 


LIFE.  205 


LIFE. 

ORE  life  we  thirst  for,  but  how  can  we  take  ? 

We  sit  like  children  by  the  surging  sea, 
Dip  with  our  shallow  shells  all  day,  and  make 
A  boast  of  the  scant  measure,  two  or  three 
Brief  drops  caught  from  the  immensity  ; 
But  what  are  these  the  long  day's  thirst  to  slake  ? 

There  is  the  sea,  which  would  not  be  less  full, 
Though  all  the  lands  should  borrow  of  its  flood  ; 

The  sea  of  Life,  fed  by  the  beautiful 
Abounding  river  of  the  smile  of  God, 

Source  of  supply  and  fountain  of  all  good, 
Boundless  and  free  and  inexhaustible. 

There  is  the  sea ;  and  close  by  is  our  thirst, 
Yet  here  we  sit  and  gaze  the  waters  o'er, 

And  dip  our  shallow  shells  in  as  at  first, 

Just  where  the  ripples  break  to  wash  the  shore, 

And  catch  a  tantalizing  drop,  nor  durst 
The  depth  or  distance  of  the  wave  explore. 


206  LIFE. 

Ah,  mighty  ocean  which  we  sport  beside, 

One  day  thy  wave  will  rise  and  foam,  and  we, 

Lost  in  its  strong,  outgoing,  refluent  tide, 
Shall  be  swept  out  into  the  deeper  sea, 

Shall  drink  the  life  of  life,  and  satisfied 
Smile  at  the  shore  from  far  eternity. 


SHUT  IN.  207 

SHUT   IN. 

And  the  Lord  shut  him  in. —  Gen.  vii.  16. 

AS  it  the  Lord  who  shut  me  in 

Between  these  walls  of  pain  ? 
Who  drew  between  me  and  the  sun 
The  darkening  curtains,  one  by  one, 

Cold  storm  and  bitter  rain, 
Hiding  all  happy  things  and  fair, 
The  flying  birds,  the  blowing  air, 
And  bidding  me  to  lie, 
All  sick  of  heart  and  faint  and  blind, 
Waiting  his  will  to  loose  or  bind, 
To  give  or  to  deny? 

Was  it  the  Lord  who  shut  me  in 

Within  this  place  of  doubt? 
I  chose  not  doubt,  my  doubt  chose  me, 
Not  unpermitted,  Lord,  of  thee,  — 

It  had  not  dared  without : 
WThat  doubt  shall  venture  to  uprear 
And  whisper  in  a  human  ear, 


208  SHUT  IN, 

If  thou,  Lord,  dost  forbid  ? 
Yet  is  it  of  thy  blessed  will 
That  I  sit  questioning,  grieving,  chill, 

Nor  joy  as  once  I  did  ? 

Is  it  the  Lord  that  shuts  me  in? 

Then  I  can  bear  to  wait ! 
No  place  so  dark,  no  place  so  poor, 
So  strong  and  fast  no  prisoning  door, 

Though  walled  by  grievous  fate, 
But  out  of  it  goes  fair  and  broad 
An  unseen  pathway,  straight  to  God, 

By  which  I  mount  to  thee. 
When  the  same  Love  that  shut  the  door 
Shall  lift  the  heavy  bar  once  more, 

And  set  the  prisoner  free. 


GOOD-BY.  209 


GOOD-BY. 

HE  interlacing  verdurous  screen 
Of  the  stanch  woodbine  still  is  green, 
And  thickly  set  with  milk-white  blooms 

Gold-anthered,  breathing  out  perfumes ; 

The  clematis  on  trellis  bars 

Still  flaunts  with  white  and  purple  stars  ; 

No  missing  leaf  has  thinner  made 

The  obelisks  of  maple  shade  ; 

Fresh  beech  boughs  flutter  in  the  breeze 

Which,  warm  as  summer,  stirs  the  trees ; 

The  sun  is  clear,  the  skies  are  blue  : 

But  still  a  sadness  filters  through 

The  beauty  and  the  bloom  ;  and  we, 

Touched  by  some  mournful  prophecy, 

Whisper  each  day  :  "  Delay,  delay  ! 

Make  not  such  haste  to  fly  away  !  " 

And  they,  with  silent  lips,  reply  : 

"  Summer  is  gone ;  we  may  not  stay. 

Summer  is  gone.     Good-by  !    good-by  !  " 


210  GOOD-BY. 

Roses  may  be  as  fragrant  fair 

As  in  the  sweet  June  days  they  were ; 

No  hint  of  frost  may  daunt  as  yet 

The  clustering  brown  mignonette, 

Nor  chilly  wind  forbid  to  ope 

The  odorous,  fragile  heliotrope  ; 

The  sun  may  be  as  warm  as  May, 

The  night  forbear  to  chase  the  day, 

And  hushed  in  false  security 

All  the  sweet  realm  of  Nature  be  : 

But  the  South-loving  birds  have  fled, 

By  their  mysterious  instinct  led  ; 

The  butterflies  their  nests  have  spun, 

And  donned  their  silken  shrouds  each  one ; 

The  bees  have  hived  them  fast,  while  we 

Whisper  each  day  :  "  Delay,  delay  ! 

Make  not  such  haste  to  fly  away  !  " 

And  all,  with  pitying  looks,  reply  : 

"  Summer  is  fled ;  we  may  not  stay. 

Summer  is  gone.     Good-by  !   good-by  !  " 


WHAT  THE  ANGEL  SAID.  211 


WHAT  THE   ANGEL   SAID. 

HEY  sat  in  the  cool  of  the  day  to  rest,  — 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  a  nameless  guest. 
The  sky  o'er  the  desert  was  hot  and  red, 
But  the  palm  boughs  nestled  overhead, 
And  the  bubbling  waters  of  the  well 
Up  and  down  in  their  basin  fell, 
And  the  goats  and  the  camels  browsed  at  ease, 
And  the  confident  song  birds  sang  and  flew 
In  the  shade  of  the  thick  mimosa  trees ; 
For  fear  was  not  when  the  world  was  new. 

In  the  early  dawning  had  come  the  guest, 
And  whether  from  east  or  whether  from  west 
They  knew  not,  nor  asked,  as  he  stood  and  bent 
At  the  entrance  of  the  lowly  tent : 
He  had  dipped  his  hand  in  the  bowl  of  food, 
He  had  thanked  and  praised  and  called  it  good ; 


212  WHAT  THE  ANGEL   SAW. 

And  now  between  his  hosts  he  sat, 

And  talked  of  matters  so  deep  and  wise 

That  Eve  looked  up  from  her  braiding  mat 
With  wonderment  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  All  is  not  lost,"  the  stranger  said, 
"  Though  the  garden  of  God  be  forfeited ; 
Still  is  there  hope  for  the  life  of  man, 
Still  can  he  struggle  and  will  and  plan, 
Still  can  he  strain  toward  the  shining  goal 
Which  tempts  and  beckons  his  sinewy  soul ; 
Still  there  is  work  to  brace  his  thews, 

And  love  to  sweeten  the  hard-won  way, 
And  the  power  to  give,  and  the  right  to  choose, — 

And  —  "     He  paused  ;  and  the  rest  he  did  not  say. 

Then  silence  fell,  for  their  thoughts  were  full 
Of  the  fair  lost  garden  beautiful ; 
A  homesick  silence,  which  neither  broke 
Till  once  again  the  stranger  spoke  : 
"You  are  strong,"  he  said,  "with  the  strength  of  heave 
And  the  world  and  its  creatures  to  you  are  given ; 
You  shall  win  in  the  fight,  though  many  oppose. 
You  shall  tread  on  the  young  of  the  lion's  den, 


WHAT  THE  ANGEL   SAID.  21 3 

And  the  desert  shall  blossom  as  the  rose 

'Neath  your  tendance."      And   Adam   asked:    "And 
then?" 

"  Then,  ripening  with  the  riper  age, 

Your  sons,  a  goodly  heritage, 

Like  palm-trees  in  their  stately  strength, 

Shall  win  to  man's  estate  at  length. 

Beside  thee  shall  they  take  their  stand, 

To  do  thy  will,  uphold  thy  hand, 

To  speed  thy  errands  with  eager  feet, 

To  quit  them  in  their  lot  like  men, 
With  tendance  and  obedience  meet." 

Then  once  more  Adam  said,  "  And  then?  " 

"  Then,  as  mild  age  draws  slowly  on, 
And  faintly  burns  thy  westering  sun, 
When  on  the  pulse  no  longer  hot 
Falls  quietude  which  youth  knows  not, 
When  patience  rules  the  tempered  will, 
And  strength  is  won  by  sitting  still, 
Then  shall  a  new-born  pleasure  come 

Into  thy  heart  and  arms  again, 
As  children's  children  fill  thy  home." 

Eve  smiled ;  but  Adam  said,  "  And  then?  " 


WHAT  THE  ANGEL   SAID. 

"  Then  "  —  and  the  guest  rose  up  to  go  — 
"  The  best,  the  last  thing  shalt  thou  know  : 
This  life  of  struggle  and  of  fight 
Shall  vanish  like  a  wind-blown  light ; 
And  after  brief  eclipse  shall  be 
Re-lit,  to  burn  more  gloriously. 
Men  by  a  strange,  sad  name  shall  call 

The  darkness,  and  with  bated  breath 
Confront  it,  but  of  God's  gifts  all 

Are  nothing  worth  compared  with  death." 

Even  as  he  spoke  his  visage  gleamed 
With  light  unearthly,  and  it  seemed 
That  radiant  wings,  unseen  till  then, 
Lifted  and  bore  him  from  their  ken. 
Awe-struck  the  solitary  two 
Beheld  him  vanish  from  their  view. 
"  It  was  the  angel  of  the  Lord," 

They  said.     "  How  blind  we  were  and  dull 
He  did  not  bear  the  fiery  sword ; 

Surely  the  Lord  is  pitiful." 

And  then  ?    The  unrelenting  years 
Surged  tide-like  on,  with  hopes  and  fears 


WHAT   THE  ANGEL   SAID.  21$ 

And  labors  full,  but  nevermore 
Brought  any  angel  to  their  door. 
But  still  his  words  within  her  heart 
Eve  kept,  and  pondered  them  apart. 
And  when  one  fatal  day  they  brought 

Her  Abel  to  her,  cold  and  dead, 
She  stayed  her  anguish  with  this  thought : 

"  'T  is  God's  best  gift,  the  angel  said." 


2l6  COMMONPLACE. 


COMMONPLACE. 

COMMONPLACE  life,"  we  say,  and  we  sigh 

But  why  should  we  sigh  as  we  say  ? 
The  commonplace  sun  in  the  commonplac 

sky, 

Makes  up  the  commonplace  day ; 
The  moon  and  the  stars  are  commonplace  things, 
And  the  flower  that  blooms,  and  the  bird  that  sings  : 
But  dark  were  the  world  and  sad  our  lot 
If  the  flowers  failed  and  the  sun  shone  not ; 
And  God,  who  studies  each  separate  soul, 
Out  of  commonplace  lives  makes  his  beautiful  whole. 


GOLD,  FRANKINCENSE,  AND  MYRRH.      21? 


GOLD,    FRANKINCENSE,  AND    MYRRH. 

OLD,  frankincense,  and  myrrh  they  brought  the 

new-born  Christ,  — 
Those  wise  men  from  the  East,  —  and  in  the 

ox's  stall 
Phe  far-brought  precious  gifts   they   heaped,   with   love 

unpriced ; 

And  Christ  the  babe  looked  on,  and  wondered  not  at 
all. 

Gk>ld,  frankincense,  and  myrrh  I,  too,  would  offer  thee, 
O  King  of  faithful  hearts,  upon  thy  Christmas  Day  ; 

\nd  ipoor  and  little  worth  although  the  offering  be, 
Because  thou  art  so  kind,  I  dare  to  think  I  may. 

[  bring  the  gold  of  faith,  which,  through  the    centuries 
long, 

Still  seeks  the  Holy  Child,  and  worships  at  his  feet, 
\nd  owns  him  for  its  Lord,  with  gladness  deep  and  strong, 

And  joins  the  angel  choir,  singing  in  chorus  sweet. 


21 8     GOLD,  FRANKINCENSE,  AND  MYRRH. 

The  frankincense  I  bear  is  worship  which  can  rise, 
Like  perfume  floating  up  higher  and  higher  still, 

Till  on  the  wings  of  prayer  it  finds  the  far  blue  skies, 
And  falls,  as  falls  the  dew,  to  freshen  heart  and  will. 

And  last  I  bring  the  myrrh,  half  bitter  and  half  sweet, 
Of  my  own  selfish  heart,  through  sacrifice  made  cleai 

And  break  the  vase  and  spill  the  oil  upon  thy  feet, 
O  Lord  of  Christmas  Day,  as  did  the  Magdalene. 

Gold,  frankincense,  and  myrrh,  —  't  is  all  I  have  to  brii 
To  thee,  O  Holy  Child,  now  throned  in  heaven's  mid 

Because  thou  art  so  kind,  take  the  poor  offering, 

And  let  me  go  forth  blessed,  as  once  the  Wise  Men  d 


A    THOUGHT.  219 


A   THOUGHT. 

OD,  in  his  power,  keeps  making  more  men, 
Peopling  the  great  world  again  and  again  ; 
Age  after  age,  as  the  centuries  roll, 
Never  he  makes  a  mistake  with  a  soul, 
Never  neglects  them,  and  never  forgets. 
Atoms  in  space  from  their  birth  to  their  end, 
Dead  or  alive,  he  is  always  their  friend. 

Those  who  lived  first,  when  the  world  was  all  new, 

Still  are  as  dear  in  his  sight  as  are  you  ; 

Perished  their  names  from  the  earth  that  they  trod, 

But  every  name  is  remembered  by  God,  — 

All  that  they  sought  for,  and  all  that  they  wrought. 

Fixed  in  unlikeness  each  separate  soul, 

Brethren  and  kin  in  the  infinite  whole. 

Is  God  not  tired,  though  almighty  He  is, 
As  the  long  years  form  the  slow  centuries, 
And  the  slow  centuries  linked  in  embrace 
Make  up  the  cycles  and  meet  into  space  ? 


220  A    THOUGHT. 

Wearies  He  never,  nor  ceaseth  His  toil, 

Nor  says,  "  It  is  finished  ;  creation  is  done  "  ?  — 

Men  are  so  many,  and  God  is  but  one  ! 

Foolish  and  childish  the  thought  that  I  frame. 
Meteors  fall  in,  but  the  sun  is  the  same. 
What  are  the  birds  to  the  air-spaces  free  ? 
What  are  the  fish  to  the  surge  or  the  sea, 
Grains  to  the  desert  sands,  motes  to  the  beam  ? 
Time  hides  its  face  at  Eternity's  call ; 
Men  may  be  many,  but  God  he  is  all. 


AT  FLOOD.  221 


AT   FLOOD. 

LL  winter  long  it  ebbed  and  ebbed,  and  left  the 

cold  earth  bare. 
No  pulse  of  growth  the  bare  boughs  stirred,  no 

hope  the  frozen  air ; 
No  twitters  cheered  the  snow-heaped  nests,  no  songs  the 

vine  and  trees, 

As  outward,  outward  swept  the  tide,  and  left  the  world  to 
freeze. 

Then  came  a  subtle  change,  —  a  time  when  for  a  mo 
ment's  space 

Life  seemed  to  stay  its  flying  feet  and  cease  its  outward 
race, 

And,  poised  as  waves  poise,  turn  its  face  toward  the  de 
serted  shore, 

And  with  a  pitying  rush  come  back  to  visit  it  once  more. 


222  A  T  FLOOD. 

We  saw  the   freshening   forces   rise    in   every  yellowing 

stem, 

In  budding  oak  and  tasselled  larch  and  scarlet  maple  gem. 
Inch  after  inch,  wave  following  wave,  it  rose  on  every  side  ; 
And  now  the  tide  is  at  its  flood,  the  blessed  summer-tide. 

For  every  ebb  there  comes  a  flow  ;  brave  hearts  can  smile 

at  both. 
The  waters  come,  the  waters  go  ;  we  watch  them,  nothing 

loath. 

Led  by  a  hand  invisible,  their  bright  waves  seem  to  sing, 
"  The  Lord  who  rules  the  winter  is  the  Lord  who  sends 

the  spring  !  " 


THE  ANGELS.  22$ 


THE  ANGELS. 

i  RE  the  angels  never  impatient 

That  we  are  so  weak  and  slow, 
So  dull  to  their  guiding  touches, 
So  deaf  to  the  whispers  low 
With  which,  entreating  and  urging, 
They  follow  us  as  we  go? 

Ah  no  !  the  pitiful  angels 

Are  clearer  of  sight  than  we, 
And  they  note  not  only  the  thing  that  we  are, 

But  the  thing  that  we  fain  would  be,  — 
The  hint  of  gold  in  the  cumbering  dross, 

Of  fruit  on  the  bare,  cold  tree. 

And  I  think  that  at  times  the  angels 

Must  smile  as  mothers  smile 
At  the  peevish  babies  on  their  knees, 

Loving  them  all  the  while, 
And  cheating  the  little  ones  of  their  pain 

U'ith  sweet  and  motherly  wile. 


224  THE  ANGELS. 

And  if  they  are  so  patient,  the  angels, 
How  tenderer  far  than  they 

Must  the  mighty  Lord  of  the  angels  be, 
Whom  the  heavenly  hosts  obey, 

Who  speeds  them  forth  on  their  errands, 
And  cares  for  us  more  than  they  ! 


NOT  YET.  225 


NOT  YET. 

OT  yet,"  she  cried,  "not  yet ! 
It  is  the  dawning,  and  life  looks  so  fair  ; 

Give  me  my  little  hour  of  sun  and  dew. 
Is  it  a  sin  that  I  should  crave  my  share, 
The  common  sunshine  and  the  common  air, 

/ 

Before  I  go  away,  dark  shade,  with  you  ? 
Not  yet ! 

"  Not  yet,"  she  cried,  "  not  yet  ! 
The  day  is  hot,  and  noon  is  pulsing  strong, 
And  every  hour  is  measured  by  a  task  ; 
There  is  no  time  for  sighing  or  for  song. 
Leave  me  a  little  longer,  just  so  long 
As  till  my  work  is  done,  — •  't  is  all  I  ask. 
Not  yet ! 

"  Not  yet,"  she  cried,  "  not  yet ! 
Nightfall  is  near,  and  I  am  tired  and  frail ; 
Day  was  too  full,  now  resting-time  has  come. 


226  NOT   YET. 

Let  me  sit  still  and  hear  the  nightingale, 
And  see  the  sunset  colors  shift  and  pale, 
Before  I  take  the  long,  hard  journey  home. 
Not  yet ! " 

And  to  all  these  in  turn, 
Comes  Death,  the  unbidden,  universal  guest, 
With  deep  and  urgent  meanings  in  his  eyes, 
And  poppied  flowers  upon  his  brow,  his  breast, 
Whispering,  "  Life  is  good,  but  I  am  best ;  " 
And  never  a  parted  soul  looks  back  and  cries, 
"  Not  yet !  " 


TO-DAY  AND   TO-MORROW.  22/ 


TO-DAY  AND   TO-MORROW. 

O-DAY  is  mine  ;  I  hold  it  fast, 
Hold  it  and  use  it  as  I  may, 
Unmindful  of  the  shadow  cast 
By  that  dim  thing  called  Yesterday. 

To-morrow  hovers  just  before, 

A  bright-winged  shape,  and  lures  me  on, 
Till  in  my  zeal  to  grasp  and  know  her, 

I  drop  To-day,  —  and  she  is  gone. 

The  bright  wings  captured  lose  their  light : 
To-morrow  weeps,  and  seems  to  say, 

"  I  am  To-day,  —  ah,  hold  me  tight ! 
Erelong  I  shall  be  Yesterday." 


228  THE    TRUE  LIGHT. 


"THAT  WAS  THE  TRUE  LIGHT,  THAT  LIGHT- 
ETH  EVERY  MAN  THAT  COMETH  INTO  THE 
WORLD." 

HEY  spy  it  from  afar, 
The  beacon's  fiery  star, 

And  storm-tossed  birds,  by  fierce  winds  buffeted, 
Rally  with  half-spent  force. 
And  shape  their  struggling  course 
To  where  it  rears  its  blazing,  beckoning  head. 

Faintly  the  tired  wings  beat 

That  rhythmical  repeat 
Which  was  such  joy  in  summer  and  in  sun ; 

Glazed  are  the  keen,  bright  eyes, 

And  heave  with  panting  sighs 
The  soft  and  plumed  bosoms  every  one. 

O'er  the  white,  weltering  waves, 
Which  yawn  like  empty  graves, 

Borne  on  the  urgings  of  the  wind,  they  fly ; 
They  reach  the  luring  glow, 
They  launch  and  plunge,  and  lo  ! 

Are  dashed  upon  the  glass,  and  fall  and  die. 


THE    TRUE  LIGHT.  229 

So  through  the  storm  and  night, 

Outwearied  with  long  flight, 
Our  souls  come  crowding  o'er  the  angry  sea. 

In  North,  in  East,  in  West, 

There  is  no  place  of  rest, 
Except,  O  kindly  Light,  except  with  thee. 

No  cold,  unyielding  glass 

Bars  and  forbids  to  pass  ; 
Thy  dear  light  scorcheth  not,  nor  burns  in  vain  ; 

The  soul  that  finds  and  knows 

Such  safe  and  sure  repose 
Need  nevermore  go  out  or  roam  again. 

Ah,  steadfast  citadel ! 

Ah,  lamp  that  burns  so  well 
Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages,  founded  true  ! 

Above  the  angry  sea 

We  urge  our  flight  to  thee. 
Shine,  kindly  Light,  and  guide  us  safely  through  ! 


230  THE   STAR. 


THE   STAR. 

HEY  followed  the  Star  the  whole  night  through ; 
As  it  moved  with  the  midnight  they  moved  too ; 
And  cared  not  whither  it  led,  nor  knew, 
Till  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 

And  just  at  the  dawn  in  the  twilight  shade 
They  came  to  the  stable,  and,  unafraid, 
Saw  the  Blessed  Babe  in  the  manger  laid 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 

We  have  followed  the  Star  a  whole  long  year, 
And  watched  its  beckon,  now  faint,  now  clear, 
And  it  now  stands  still  as  we  draw  anear 
To  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 

And  just  as  the  wise  men  did  of  old, 
In  the  hush  of  the  winter  dawning  cold, 
We  come  to  the  stable,  and  we  behold 
The  Child  on  the  Christmas  morning. 


THE  STAR.  231 

And  just  as  the  wise  men  deemed  it  meet 
To  offer  him  gold  and  perfumes  sweet, 
We  would  lay  our  gifts  at  his  holy  feet,  — 
Our  gifts  on  the  Christmas  morning. 

O  Babe, -once  laid  in  the  ox's  bed, 
With  never  a  pillow  for  thy  head, 
Now  throned  in  the  highest  heavens  instead, 
O  Lord  of  the  Christmas  morning  !  — 

Because  we  have  known  and  have  loved  thy  star, 
And  have  followed  it  long  and  followed  it  far, 
From  the  land  where  the  shadows  and  darkness  are, 
To  find  thee  on  Christmas  morning,  — 

Accept  the  gifts  that  we  dare  to  bring, 
Though  worthless  and  poor  the  offering, 
And  help  our  souls  to  rise  and  to  sing 
In  the  joy  of  thy  Christmas  morning. 


232  HELEN. 


HELEN. 

HE  autumn  seems  to  cry  for  thee, 
Best  lover  of  the  autumn  days  ! 
Each  scarlet-tipped  and  wine-red  tree, 
Each  russet  branch  and  branch  of  gold, 
Gleams  through  its  veil  of  shimmering  haze, 

And  seeks  thee  as  they  sought  of  old  ; 
For  all  the  "glory  of  their  dress, 
They  wear  a  look  of  wistfulness. 

In  every  wood  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  ruddy  boughs  above  thy  head, 

And  heaped  in  either  slender  hand 
The  frosted  white  and  amber  ferns, 

The  sumach's  deep,  resplendent  red, 
Which  like  a  fiery  feather  burns, 

And  over  all,  thy  happy  eyes, 

Shining  as  clear  as  autumn  skies. 


HELEN.  233 

I  hear  thy  call  upon  the  breeze 

Gay  as  the  dancing  wind,  and  sweet, 

And  underneath  the  radiant  trees, 
O'er  lichens  gray  and  darkling  moss, 

Follow  the  trace  of  those  light  feet 
Which  never  were  at  fault  or  loss, 

But,  by  some  forest  instinct  led, 

Knew  where  to  turn  and  how  to  tread. 

Where  art  thou,  comrade  true  and  tried  ? 

The  woodlands  call  for  thee  in  vain, 
And  sadly  burns  the  autumn-tide 

Before  my  eyes,  made  dim  and  blind 
By  blurring,  puzzling  mists  of  pain. 

I  look  before,  I  look  behind  ; 
Beauty  and  loss  seem  everywhere, 
And  grief  and  glory  fill  the  air. 

Already,  in  these  few  short  weeks, 

A  hundred  things  I  leave  unsaid, 
Because  there  is  no  voice  that  speaks 

In  answer,  and  no  listening  ear, 
No  one  to  care  now  thou  art  dead  ! 

And  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year, 
I  shall  but  miss  thee  more,  and  go 
With  half  my  thought  untold,  I  know. 


234  HELEN. 

I  do  not  think  thou  hast  forgot, 
I  know  that  I  shall  not  forget, 

And  some  day,  glad,  but  wondering  not, 
We  two  shall  meet,  and  face  to  face, 

In  still,  fair  fields  unseen  as  yet, 

Shall  talk  of  each  old  time  and  place, 

And  smile  at  pain  interpreted 

By  wisdom  learned  since  we  were  dead. 


LUX  IN  TENEBRIS.  235 


LUX   IN  TENEBRIS. 

ARK  falls  the  night,  withheld  the  day, 
Weary  we  fare  perplexed  and  chill, 
Led  by  one  little  guiding  ray 
Shining  from  centuries  far  away,  — 

Good-will  and  Peace  :  Peace  and  Good-will. 

The  torch  of  glory  pales  and  wanes, 
The  lamp  of  love  must  know  decease, 

But  still  o'er  far  Judaean  plains 

The  quenchless  star-beam  lives  and  reigns,  — 
Peace  and  Good-will :  Good-will  and  Peace. 

And  clear  to-day  as  long  ago 

The  angel-chorus  echoes  still, 
Above  the  clamor  and  the  throe 
Of  human  passion,  human  woe,  — 

Good-will  and  Peace  :  Peace  and  Good-will. 


236  LUX  IN  TENEBRIS. 

Through  eighteen  hundred  stormy  years 

The  dear  notes  ring,  and  will  not  cease  ; 
And  past  all  mists  of  mortal  tears 
The  guiding  star  rebukes  our  fears, — 

Peace  and  Good-will :  Good-will  and  Peace. 

Shine,  blessed  star,  the  night  is  black, 
Shine,  and  the  heavens  with  radiance  fill, 

While  on  thy  slender,  guiding  track 

The  angel  voices  echo  back,  — 

Good-will  and  Peace  :  Peace  and  Good-will. 


LENT.,  237 


LENT. 

S  it  the  Fast  which  God  approves, 
When  I  awhile  for  flesh  eat  fish, 
Changing  one  dainty  dish 
For  others  no  less  good  ? 

Do  angels  smile  and  count  it  gain 
That  I  compose  my  laughing  face 
To  gravity  for  a  brief  space, 

Then  straightway  laugh  again? 

Does  Heaven  take  pleasure  as  I  sit 
Counting  my  joys  as  usurers  gold,  — 
This  bit  to  give,  that  to  withhold, 

Weighing  and  measuring  it ; 

Setting  off  abstinence  from  dance 
As  buying  privilege  of  song  ; 
Calling  six  right  and  seven  wrong, 

With  decorous  countenance  ; 


238  LENT. 

Compounding  for  the  dull  to-day 
By  projects  for  to-morrow's  fun, 
Checking  off  each  set  task  as  done, 

Grudging  a  short  delay  ? 

I  cannot  think  that  God  will  care 
For  such  observance  ;  He  can  see 
The  very  inmost  heart  of  me, 

And  every  secret  there. 

But  if  I  keep  a  truer  Lent, 

Not  heeding  what  I  wear  or  eat, 
Not  balancing  the  sour  with  sweet, 

Evenly  abstinent, 

And  lay  my  soul  with  all  its  stain 
Of  travel  from  the  year-long  road, 
Between  the  healing  hands  of  God 

To  be  made  clean  again ; 

And  put  my  sordid  self  away, 
Forgetting  for  a  little  space 
The  petty  prize,  the  eager  race, 

The  restless,  striving  day  ; 


LENT.  239 

Opening  my  darkness  to  the  sun, 
Opening  my  narrow  eyes  to  see 
The  pain  and  need  so  close  to  me 

Which  I  had  willed  to  shun ; 

Praying  God's  quickening  grace  to  show 
The  thing  he  fain  would  have  me  do, 
The  errand  that  I  may  pursue 

And  quickly  rise  and  go  ;  — 

If  so  I  do  it,  starving  pride, 

Fasting  from  sin  instead  of  food, 
God  will  accept  such  Lent  as  good, 

And  bless  its  Easter-tide. 


240  PALM  SUNDAY. 


PALM   SUNDAY. 

ijHE  multitude  was  crowding  all  the  way, 

But  yesterday, 
To  see  and  touch  the  Lord  as  he  rode  by, 

To  catch  his  eye, 

Or  at  the  very  least  a  palm-branch  fling 
Upon  the  pathway  of  the  chosen  King. 

Faded  and  dry  those  palms  lie  in  the  sun, 

Withered  each  one ; 
Those  glad,  rejoicing  shouters  presently 

Will  flock  to  see, 

With  never  thought  of  pity  or  of  loss, 
The  King  of  Glory  on  his  cruel  cross. 

Lord,  we  would  fain  some  little  palm-branch  lay 

Upon  thy  way  ; 
But  we  have  nothing  fair  enough  or  sweet 

For  holy  feet 

To  tread,  nor  dare  our  sin-stained  garments  fling 
Upon  the  road  where  rides  the  Righteous  King. 


PALM  SUNDAY.  241 

Yet  thou,  all-gracious  One,  didst  not  refuse 

Those  fickle  Jews ; 
And  even  such  worthless  leaves  as  we  may  cull, 

Faded  and  dull, 

Thou  wilt  endure  and  pardon  and  receive, 
Because  thou  knovvest  we  have  naught  else  to  give. 

So,  Lord,  our  stubborn  wills  we  first  will  break, 

If  thou  wilt  take  ; 
And  next  our  selfishness,  and  then  our  pride,  — 

And  what  beside  ? 

Our  hearts,  Lord,  poor  and  fruitless  though  they  be, 
And  quick  to  change,  and  nothing  worth  to  see. 

If  but  the  foldings  of  thy  garment's  hem 

Shall  shadow  them, 
These  worthless  leaves  which  we  have  brought  and  strewed 

Along  thy  road 

Shall  be  raised  up  and  made  divinely  sweet, 
And  fit  to  lie  beneath  thy  gracious  feet. 


242  SOUL   AND  BODY. 


SOUL  AND   BODY. 

•JHE  Soul  said  to  the  Body,  in  the  watches  of  the 

night : 
"  I  am  the  nobler  part  of  thee,  stronger  and  far 

more  worth. 
God  gave  me  of  his  life  of  life  a  tiny  point  of  light ; 

I  show  his  glory  to  the  world,  but  thou  art  of  the  earth." 

The  Body  answered  to  the  Soul :  "  Lower  I  am,  and  yet 
God  made  me  in  his  image  for  angel  eyes  to  see. 

Thou  art  but  viewless  essence,  whom  all  men  would  forget 
Except  for  the  abiding-place  which  thou  hast  found  in 
me." 

The  Soul  said  to  the  Body  :  "  I  guide  thee  at  my  will. 
I  am  the  wind  within  the  sail,  which  else  would  lifeless 

swing ; 
I  am  the  mainspring  of  the  watch,  which  else,  inert  and 

still, 

Would  cumber  all  the  universe,  a  dead   and  useless 
thing." 


SOUL   AND  BODY.  243 

"  I  too  have  rule,"  the  Body  cried.  "  I  curb  thy  higher 

flights ; 

I  fetter  all  thy  soarings,  and  I  bind  thee,  and  I  grieve. 
I  can  sting  thee  into  wakefulness  through  long,  unresting 

nights ; 

Can  take  the  glory  from  thy  noon,  the  splendor  from 
thy  eve." 

"  And  well  can  I  return  such  wrong,"  replied  the  eager 

Soul. 
"  How  often  hast  thou  laid  thee  down,  to  find  thy  sleep 

denied  ? 
While  I  quickened  in  thy  brain,  robbed  thy  heart-beats  of 

control, 

And  poured  through  every  artery  my  warm,  pulsating 
tide? 

"Thou  shalt  lie  down  to  sleep  one  day,  and  long  that  sleep 

shall  last, 
For  I  will  shake  thy  shackles  off  and  soar  up  to  the 

skies ; 
What  power  shall  avail  thee  then  to  break  thy  slumber 

fast? 

What  voice  shall  reach  thy  dreaming  ear,  to  say  to  thee, 
'  Arise  '  ?  " 


244  SOUL  AND  BODY. 

"  Ah,  Soul ! "  the  Body  humbly  urged,  "  be  merciful,  I 
pray; 

Thou  art  the  nobler  part,  but  thou  canst  never  let  me  go. 
I  have  my  certain  share  of  all,  thy  best,  thy  worst,  alway : 

We  are  inextricably  blent.     God  willed  it  should  be  so. 

"  Thou  wilt  reach  heaven  before  me,  but  I  may  follow  too. 

There  is  a  resurrection  for  the  Body,  as  the  Soul ; 
Comrades  to  all  eternity,  we  should  be  comrades  true 

Who  own  one  common  fate  and  life,  who  seek  the  self 
same  goal. 

"  Forbear,  then,  to   reproach   me,  O   brother   given   by 

Heaven  ! 
I  wrong  myself  in  wronging  thee,  dearest  and  closest 

friend  ! 

Let  all  our  variance  and  strife  be  buried  and  forgiven, 
And  let  us  work  together  in  love  unto  the  end." 

Then  the  Soul  smiled  on  the  Body,  and  the  Body  drank 

the  smile, 
As  meadow  pastures  drink  the  flood  of  sunshine  still  and 

deep ; 

And  the  two  embraced  each  other,  and  in  a  little  while, 
Close  folded  in  the  Body's  arms,  the  Soul  had  fallen 
asleep. 


SOUND  A  7^  CORE.  245 


SOUND   AT   CORE. 

HE  wind  is  fierce  and  loud  and  high, 
The  angry  tempest  hurtles  by  ; 
With  quivering  keel  and  straining  sail 
The  ship  of  State  confronts  the  gale. 
Rocks  are  ahead  and  peril  near ; 
But  still  we  face  the  storm,  nor  fear, 
Saying  this  brave  truth  o'er  and  o'er  : 
"  The  nation's  heart  is  sound  at  core." 

We  knew  it  in  those  darker  days 
When  all  the  kind,  familiar  ways 
And  all  the  tenderness  of  life 
Seemed  lost  in  bitterness  and  strife  ; 
When,  torn  with  shot  and  riddled  through, 
Lay  in  the  dust  our  Red  and  Blue, 
Dropped  by  the  gallant  hands  that  bore, 
"The  nation's  heart  is  sound  at  core." 


246  SOUND  AT  CORE. 

We  said  it  when  the  war-cloud  rent, 
And  out  of  field  and  out  of  tent 
The  bronzed  soldiers,  Blue  and  Gray, 
Took  each  the  peaceful  homeward  way ; 
When  the  foiled  traitors  sought  to  attain 
By  fraud  what  force  had  failed  to  gain,  — 
Heart-sick,  we  said  the  words  once  more : 
"The  nation's  heart  is  sound  at  core." 

And  always,  as  the  worst  seemed  near, 
And  stout  hearts  failed  for  very  fear, 
Came  a  great  throb  the  country  through,  — 
The  nation's  heart  still  beating  true  ! 
Ah,  mother-land  and  mother-breast, 
We  still  will  trust  you  and  will  rest ; 
Although  waves  howl  and  tempests  lower, 
Your  heart,  our  heart,  is  sound  at  core. 


THE   OLD    VILLAGE.  247 


THE   OLD   VILLAGE. 


T  lies  among  the  greenest  hills 

New  England's  depths  can  show 
About  their  base  the  river  fills 


And  empties  as  the  distant  mills 
Control  its  ebb  and  flow  : 

It  had  a  quick  life  of  its  own, 
But  that  was  long  ago. 


Two  centuries  have  rolled  away 
Since  a  small,  hardy  band 

Turned  their  sad  faces  from  the  bay, 

The  dim  sky-line  where  England  lay, 
And  boldly  marched  inland. 

Before  them  lay  the  wilderness, 
Behind  them  lay  the  strand. 


248  THE  OLD    VILLAGE. 

Bravely  they  plunged  into  the  waste 
By  white  foot  never  trod ; 

Bravely  and  busily  they  traced 

The  village  boundaries,  and  placed 
Their  ploughs  in  virgin  sod  ; 

Built  huts,  and  then  a  meeting-house 
Where  man  might  worship  God. 


The  huts  gave  place  to  houses  white ; 

The  axe-affrighted  woods 
Shrank  back  to  left,  shrank  back  to  right ; 
The  valleys  laughed  with  harvest  light ; 

The  river's  vagrant  moods 
Were  curbed  by  clattering  wheels,  which  shook 

The  once  green  solitudes. 

And  years  flowed  on,  and  life  flowed  by. 

The  hills  were  named  and  known. 
The  young  looked  out  with  eager  eye 
From  the  "  old  "  village  ;  by  and  by 

They  stole  forth  one  by  one, 
Leaving  the  old  folks  in  their  homes 

To  labor  on  alone. 


THE   OLD   VILLAGE.  249 

And  one  by  one  the  old  folks  died, 

Each  in  his  lonely  way. 
The  doors  which  once  stood  open  wide, 
To  let  a  busy  human  tide 

Sweep  in  and  out  all  day, 
Were  closed  ;  the  unseeing  windows  stared 

Just  as  a  blind  man  may. 


The  mills,  abandoned,  ceased  to  whir ; 

The  unchecked  river  ran 
Its  old-time  courses,  merrier, 
And  glad  in  spirit,  as  it  were, 

For  its  escape  from  man, 
Teased  the  dumb  wheels,  and  mocked  and  played 

As  only  a  river  can. 

Looking  to-day  across  the  space, 

Beyond  the  flower-fringed  track 
Which  once  was  road,  the  eye  can  trace 
The  outlines  of  a  cellar-place, 

A  half-burned  chimney-back : 
They  mark  the  ruins  of  a  home 

Now  empty,  cold,  and  black. 


250  THE   OLD    VILLAGE. 

And  here  and  there  an  old  dame  stands 
Some  farm-house  window  nigh, 

Or,  dark  against  the  pasture-lands, 

A  ploughman  old,  with  trembling  hands, 
Checks  his  team  suddenly, 

And  turns  a  gray  head  to  the  road 
To  watch  the  passer-by. 

Above  the  empty  village  lies 

One  thickly  peopled  spot, 
Where  gray  stones  in  gray  silence  rise, 
And  tell  to  sunset  and  sunrise 

Of  past  lives  that  are  not,  — 
The  lives  that  fought  and  strove  and  toiled 

And  builded.     And  for  what  ? 


'T  is  Nature's  law  in  everything. 

The  river  seeks  the  sea ; 
But  not  one  droplet  wandering 
Goes  ever  back  to  feed  the  spring. 

Such  things  are  and  must  be. 
The  gone  is  gone,  the  lost  is  lost, 

Fled  irrevocably. 


THE   OLD   VILLAGE.  251 

Old  village  on  the  lonely  hill, 

Deserted  by  your  own, 
Your  spended  lifelike  mountain  rill 
Has  gone  to  swell  the  tide  and  fill 

Some  sea  unseen,  unknown. 
Let  this  brave  thought  your  comfort  be, 

As  thus  you  die  alone. 


252  A    GREETING. 


A  GREETING. 

H,  dear  and  friendly  Death, 
End  of  my  road,  however  long  it  be, 
Waiting  with  hospitable  hands  stretched  out 
And  full  of  gifts  for  me  ! 

Why  do  we  call  thee  foe, 
Clouding  with  darksome  mists  thy  face  divine  ? 
Life,  she  was  sweet,  but  poor  her  largess  seems 

When  matched  with  thine. 

Thy  amaranthine  blooms 
Are  not  less  lovely  than  her  rose  of  joy ; 
And  the  rare,  subtle  perfumes  which  they  breathe 

Never  the  senses  cloy. 


Thou  boldest  in  thy  store 
Full  satisfaction  of  all  doubt,  reply 
To  question,  and  the  golden  clews  to  dreams 

Which  idly  passed  us  by. 


A    GREETING.  2 S3 

Darkness  to  tired  eyes, 

Perplexed  with  vision,  blinded  with  long  day ; 
Quiet  to  busy  hands,  glad  to  fold  up 

And  lay  their  work  away. 

A  balm  for  anguish  past, 
Rest  to  the  long  unrest  which  smiles  did  hide ; 
The  recognitions  thirsted  for  in  vain, 

And  still  by  life  denied. 

A  nearness,  all  unknown 
While  in  these  stifling,  prisoning  bodies  pent, 
Unto  thy  soul  and  mine,  beloved,  made  one 

At  last  in  full  content. 

Thou  bringest  me  mine  own, 
The  garnered  flowers  which  felt  thy  sickle  keen, 
And  the  full  vision  of  that  Face  divine, 

Which  I  have  loved  unseen. 

Oh,  dear  and  friendly  Death, 
End  of  my  road,  however  long  it  be, 
Hearing  me  day  by  day,  I  still  can  smile 

Whene'er  I  think  of  thee  ! 


2$4  CHANGELESS. 


CHANGELESS. 

E  say,  "  The  sun  has  set,"  and  we  sorrow  sore 
As  we  watch  the  darkness  creep  the  landscape 

o'er, 

And  the  thick  shadows  fall,  and  the  night  draw  on ; 
And  we  mourn  for  the  brightness  lost,  and  the  vanished  sun. 

And  all  the  time  the  sun  in  the  self-same  place 

Waits,  ready  to  clasp  the  earth  in  his  embrace, 

Ready  to  give  to  all  of  his  stintless  ray ; 

And  't  is  we  who  have  "  set,"  it  is  we  who  have  turned  away  ! 

"  The  Lord  has  hidden  his  face,"  we  sadly  cry, 
As  we  sit  in  the  night  of  grief  with  no  helper  by. 
"  Guiding  uncounted  worlds  in  their  courses  dim, 
How  should  our  little  pain  be  marked  by  him?" 

But  all  the  while  that  we  mourn,  the  Lord  stands  near, 
And  the  Son  divine  is  waiting  to  help  and  hear ; 
And 't  is  we  who  hide  our  faces,  and  blindly  turn  away, 
While  the  Sun  of  the  soul  shines  on  mid  the  perfect  day. 


EASTER.  255 


EASTER. 

LOWERS  die  not  in  the  winter-tide, 

Although  they  wake  in  spring ; 
Pillowed  'neath  mounds  of  fleecy  snow, 


While  skies  are  gray  and  storm-winds  blow, 

All  patiently  they  bide, 
Fettered  by  frost,  and  bravely  wait, 
And  trust  in  spring  or  soon  or  late. 

Hope  dies  not  in  the  winter-tide, 

Though  sore  it  longs  for  spring ; 
Cool  morn  may  ripen  to  hot  noon, 
And  evening  dusks  creep  all  too  soon 

The  noonday  sun  to  hide  ; 
But  through  the  night  there  stir  and  thrill 
The  sleeping  strengths  of  life  and  will. 


2$6  EASTER. 

For  souls  there  comes  a  winter-tide, 
For  souls  there  blooms  a  spring ; 
Though  winter  days  may  linger  long, 
And  snows  be  deep  and  frosts  be  strong, 

And  faith  be  sorely  tried, 
When  Christ  shall  shine,  who  is  the  Sun, 
Spring-time  shall  be  for  every  one. 

Oh,  mighty  Lord  of  winter-tide  ! 

Oh,  loving  Lord  of  spring  ! 
Come  to  our  hearts  this  Easter  Day, 
Melt  all  the  prisoning  ice  away, 

And  evermore  abide, 
Making  both  good  and  ill  to  be 
Thy  blessed  opportunity. 


THE    WORLD  IS   VAST. 


THE  WORLD   IS  VAST. 

HE  world  is  vast  and  we  are  small, 
We  are  so  weak  and  it  so  strong, 
Onward  it  goes,  nor  cares  at  all 
For  us,  —  our  silence  or  our  song, 
Our  fast-day  or  our  festival. 

We  tremble  as  we  feel  it  sway 
Beneath  our  feet  as  on  we  fare  ; 

But,  like  a  ball  which  children  play, 
God  spins  it  through  the  far  blue  air. 
We  are  his  own  ;  why  should  we  care  ? 


A     000671600     5 


